


Safe and Sound

by FireflysLove



Series: Lipstick, a Shield, and a Metal Arm [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireflysLove/pseuds/FireflysLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Married life is supposed to be hard. How do you navigate it when there's three of you? And what about that bun in the oven?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 8-October 9 (S,B)

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are in installment 3. It went through four titles!
> 
> The original summary of this story read "Peggy's dead. Now what? Or, dismantling Hydra before it got a chance to get off the ground. (Or is it?)"

_September 8, 1946_

_St. Louis, MO_

Steve doesn’t hear the shots over the music and the roar of the crowd. He notices a flurry of movement at the back of the theatre, but pays it no attention until he does hear the next shot. It’s much louder than the first six. He’ll later find out that they were fired through a suppressor, and the seventh was not. At the moment, though, he leaps off the stage, and forces his way into the back of the crowd. He finds his husband kneeling on the floor, his hands covered in their wife’s blood.

A woman screams, and the theatre explodes into chaos. The last shot was from Bucky’s gun into the man who fired the first six, and he lies dying on the floor. Ignoring the stampeding crowd, Steve grabs the man by his shirt front. “Who sent you?” he demands.

The man cracks a sickeningly familiar smile, “Hail…Hydra.”

Medics arrive and rush Peggy away, while Steve sits on the floor next to the man’s body, stunned into silence.

 

* * *

 

_September 9, 1946_

_St. Louis, MO_

 

They’re sitting in the waiting room at the hospital when the doctor comes out, a grim look on his face.

“Mr. Rogers?” he asks.

Steve nods.

“I… I’m very sorry…” he begins.

All the blood drains out of Steve’s face.

 

* * *

 

_September 10, 1946_

_SHIELD Headquarters, Camp Lehigh, New Jersey_

Steve’s gone frigid, the same feeling he had after Bucky fell from the train. Across the table from him sits a smug toad in glasses.

“What did you do?” Steve growls.

“Ah,” Zola says. “I see my agents achieved their tasks. I take it our dear Ms. Carter did not survive?”

Steve leaps across the table and wraps his hands around the toad’s throat. He nearly succeeds at his task before two pairs of hands pull him off and drag him out of the room.

“Get him under control, Barnes,” Stark says. “We need Zola’s information.”

Steve hisses at Stark.

Bucky grabs him by the collar and drags him down the hallway into a broom closet. Steve’s head slams against the wall as Bucky shoves him into it by the shoulders.

“He ordered it,” Steve says.

“I know,” Bucky says. “But if he has ‘agents’, then we need to get whatever information we can out of him. Then we can rip him to shreds.”

“I’ll get the information out of him,” Steve says dangerously.

“No, Steve,” Bucky says. “Let Stark do it. If either of us try, he’s going to die too soon.”

 

* * *

 

_September 12, 1946_

_Brooklyn, New York_

It’s a cold and rainy day. Suitable for a funeral, Steve thinks. They bury her next to Steve’s parents. No one spoke about it, but everyone silently agreed it was the best place. There shouldn’t’ve been a place at all.

Becca cries silently into a handkerchief, while her grandmother stands at her side in support.

Bucky’s parents are stone faced.

Stark doesn’t even show up

Steve punches through a stone wall that day.

 

* * *

 

_September 22, 1946_

_Somewhere in Ukraine_

The Ukrainian wind is cold as it bites through Steve’s jacket. He’s sitting on the roof of an abandoned building, head resting on his knees, trying to get some sleep while Bucky lies prone, eye trained through the sight of a rifle.

“He’s coming out,” Bucky says.

“Fucking finally,” Steve says.

A few seconds later, Bucky pulls the trigger, and the Hydra agent crumples to the ground.

“Only seventeen left on the list,” Steve says grimly.

“God help us,” Bucky mutters.

 

* * *

 

_September 29, 1946_

_Somewhere else in Ukraine_

They spend the night bivouacked in the blown-out shell of a warehouse, poring over maps and the list Zola had given up. Eventually, the exhaustion of the mission overcomes Steve, and he slumps over, asleep. He wakes several hours later to the lightening sky and Bucky’s soft snores. He extracts himself from the tangle of limbs, and wanders out of the building, into the dark forest.

He walks in circles for what seems like hours before returning to the warehouse.

Bucky is awake, and looks more haggard than usual.

“It’s pointless, isn’t it?” Steve asks.

“What do you think she’d say?” Bucky asks.

“That it was a worthy sacrifice to root out Zola’s network,” Steve sighs.

Bucky chuckles weakly, “You’re probably right. Too damn noble. Both of you.”

“I just want to go home,” Steve says.

“It’s not pointless,” Bucky says. “But it’s not going to bring her back.”

“I know,” Steve says.

“Come here,” Bucky says, and pulls Steve in for a slow kiss. “Just forget for a few minutes.”

 

* * *

 

_October 2, 1946_

_Budapest, Hungary_

 

“No,” Bucky says.

“Do it!” Steve shouts.

“No,” Bucky repeats just as firmly.

“What’s gotten into you?” Steve asks.

“What’s gotten into _you_?” Bucky asks back.

“You know damn well what’s gotten into me,” Steve growls.

Bucky drops the rifle, stalks toward Steve, plants his left hand into his chest and _pushes_. The gears protest at Steve’s resistance, but after a moment they overcome inertia, and Steve stumbles backward into the wall.

“You’re spiraling out of control, Steve,” he says.

“It feels like everything’s slipping away from me,” Steve says, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Half the time nothing feels real anymore.”

“Shh,” Bucky quiets Steve. “I’m right here. _I’m_ real.” He gently reaches a hand between them, tugs the hem of his shirt out of his pants, and grabs Steve’s hand. He slides it up his own chest until Steve’s palm rests flat against the strong beat of Bucky’s heart. A soft noise sounds from his shoulder, and Bucky swears softly. “Shhh.”

Steve nuzzles into his neck, and Bucky turns his head to the side, catching the other man’s lips with his own. “It’s going to be alright,” he assures Steve.

“No it isn’t,” Steve mutters against Bucky’s face.

“For right now, it is,” Bucky says quietly, but firmly. “You’re going to be alright.”

A sudden sob wracks Steve’s frame, and he finally breaks down into the crying fit he’s been putting off for a month. Bucky hadn’t let Steve see his. Hours later, Steve falls asleep, head in Bucky’s lap, something that hadn’t happened since before they realized that boys don’t do that with each other.

He wakes up with red streaked eyes, but something in him seems lighter. Peggy’s loss still weighs heavily on his soul, and it’s evident, but he no longer looks like he’s going to jump out of the building at any moment.

“We need to find food,” Steve says. “Or steal it.”

“There’s a market down the street. The owner told me he’d sell me yesterday’s bread for a quarter of the price if I brought him a few rabbits,” Bucky says, then gestures to the brace of rabbits sitting next to him.

“Where in the hell did you get those?” Steve asks. “And since when do you speak Hungarian?”

“At the park and he spoke German,” Bucky says.

Bucky goes down to the store and gets bread, as well as a few other essentials. He wishes they had Stark’s supersoldier liquor, but he settles for the homebrew that the man says his wife uses as oven cleaner.

They drink the entire bottle in ten minutes.

 

* * *

 

_October 7, 1946_

_Somewhere in the Austrian Alps_

“I really fucking hate the Alps.”

“So do I.”

“How many left?”

“Twelve.”

“Stark drop us anymore information?”

“Only that there’s an enclave of six of them somewhere in these mountains.”

 

* * *

 

_October 9, 1946_

_Somewhere else in the Austrian Alps_

 

The bullet clips Bucky on the shoulder, spinning him around, and off the building. The fall is five stories, but he doesn’t have time to catch himself on anything, and lands nearly vertical, on one foot. He can _hear_ the bones in his foot and ankle shattering, a second before it collapses under him. Steve, still on the rooftop, picks up the rifle Bucky dropped, and the two men on the opposing building fall off, dead before they hit the ground. A few moments later, Steve’s kneeling next to Bucky, holding the foot in his hand.

“You’re going to have to go back,” he says.

“Steve, it’ll heal in a few days,” Bucky says.

“I know, but these two warned their comrades before I took them out, and I have to follow them before they go to ground,” Steve says.

Bucky sighs heavily, “Don’t get yourself killed without me.”

“I’ll try not to,” Steve says, smiling wryly. He starts to rise.

“Punk,” Bucky says.

“Jerk,” Steve says back.


	2. October 10-November 8 (S)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's alone in Europe. Harrison, Charlotte, and Jenny. Steve talks about his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments on the last chapter give me such glee. Murder is fun.

_October 10, 1946_

_Bern, Switzerland_

 

The Commandos had never gone into Switzerland during the war, so the Swiss Alps were completely unfamiliar to him. Well, as unfamiliar as a mountain range on a continent across the ocean from his home could be.

His current target, the last of five on Zola’s list, one Janek Gajos, was staying in a small alpine hotel. The plan Steve and Bucky had had was to go in, lure him out, and take care of him outside in the forest. Steve’s plan now involved the middle of the night and a pillow.

 

* * *

 

_October 16, 1946_

_Somewhere else in Switzerland_

The next two were already in the custody of the Army by the time Steve caught up with them. He stayed that night in a small farmhouse, and in the morning, the farmer’s wife presented him with a pack of folders from Stark. Steve had no idea how the man was getting this stuff to him, but he was very grateful. With the folders came a note that the two men had been “taken care of”. That left just three.

 

* * *

 

_November 1, 1946_

_Somewhere in Southern France_

Steve had left Pierre Montagne for last. The only member of Zola’s organization who was not a member of the former Axis Powers. Apparently Zola had met him while the man was a prisoner of Hydra, actually one of the early POWs taken for the task of creating a supersoldier on the other side of the war, the operation that had ended with the destruction of the prison camp at Azzano. According to Zola, who Steve personally thought was being _so_ forthcoming that it was suspicious, Montagne hadn’t had to be brainwashed.

He had, in fact, volunteered for the program.

 

* * *

 

_November 3, 1946_

_Aix-en-Provence, France_

Montagne hadn’t been hard to find, it was almost as if he had been waiting for Steve to come find him. In retrospect, that was exactly what had happened.

Steve took sick delight in dropping the man’s body into a storm drain.

 

* * *

 

_November 4, 1946_

_Aix-en-Provence, France_

Steve awoke to find Montagne sitting in a chair in Steve’s hotel room.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that,” the man taunted.

“But I killed you,” Steve says, still groggy from sleep.

“You _almost_ killed me,” he corrects. “As I’m sure you know, the serum makes people _very_ hard to kill.”

“You think Zola’s bastard version does?” Steve asks, sitting up and reaching for the gun under his pillow.

“Don’t bother with the gun,” Montagne says. “Your friend Barnes sure looks like he benefitted from Dr. Zola’s work.”

“You leave him out of this,” Steve says.

“Oh, but isn’t that just the _point_?” Montagne asks. “It’s all about your little family. Perfect looking life. Beautiful couple, nearly-tragic love story, careers. The only thing you’re missing is a pack of small children. But looks are deceiving, aren’t they?”

“And what do you mean by that?” Steve asks, slowly sliding his hand for his gun.

“Oh, we’ve long been aware of your _arrangement_ ,” Montagne says. “You’re not very good at hiding it.”

“Shut up,” Steve growls, then fastens his hand around the gun.

“I told you not to bother with the gun,” Montagne says. “Now I’m going to have to clean up the sheets. I was hoping we could do this cleanly.” He sighs theatrically, then almost faster than Steve’s eyes can track, reaches for his own gun.

A blossom of red blooms on his chest a fraction of a second before his hand reaches it.

“Recover from that, asshole,” Steve says, then drops the pistol onto the dead man’s chest, gets dressed, collects his scant belongings and exits by way of the window.

 

* * *

 

_November 6, 1946_

_London, England_

 

Steve stands in front of the door of the Carter residence, and considers whether he should knock or not.

Eleanor makes the decision for him when she sees him from the upstairs window, and yells to her parents.

Charlotte opens the door a moment later and pulls him in.

Harrison is standing in the kitchen, and Charlotte directs Steve into a seat at the table.

“How have you been doing?” Charlotte asks.

“About as well as I look,” Steve says gruffly. He’s looked in a mirror in the past week, and it’s not a good look.

“The beard’s different,” Charlotte comments.

“I… haven’t been able to shave recently,” Steve says.

“Who did it?” Harrison asks, still looking out the window.

“A resurrection of Hydra, the Nazi deep science division,” Steve says.

“I heard about Hydra,” Harrison says. “I thought they were trying to make a Nazi version of Captain America.”

“They were,” Steve says.

“Well it’s a damn good thing the real article interrupted those plans,” Harrison says.

Steve barks a harsh laugh. “You don’t know the half of it,” he says. “Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull worked for Dr. Erskine, who eventually perfected the serum. He injected himself with it. Unfortunately for him, Erskine, and all the knowledge with him, was smuggled out of Germany. Erskine found a skinny kid from Brooklyn, did big flashy science, and turned out some kind of perfect specimen. Fixed all the kid’s health problems. So Schmidt had Erskine assassinated, and had his own trained monkey working on a serum. The monkey, Zola, actually managed to create two supersoldiers for the Germans. One was a volunteer, a French POW. The other was an unwilling American POW.”

“ _Two_ supersoldiers?!” Charlotte exclaims. “How did we not hear about them sooner?”

“The Frenchie was locked up because the procedure drove him a little bit insane,” Steve says. “The American was rescued by Captain America and was part of his squad.”

“And the American didn’t go insane?” Harrison asks.

“Not as far as I can tell,” Steve says.

“You know him?” Charlotte asks.

“You’ve met him,” Steve says.

“We have?”

“Your best man,” Harrison says.

At Steve’s nod, Charlotte sucks in her breath.

“And… you…”

“At the beginning of the war I was five foot four and weight a hundred pounds soaking wet,” Steve says. “We’ll be here all night if you want to hear about my illnesses.”

“Oh my,” Charlotte says.

“And Peggy was the one who got Erskine out of Germany,” Steve adds.

“Oh my,” Harrison says.

“So I’ve spent the last two months… eliminating the rest of the Hydra resurrection,” Steve says. “The Alps aren’t known for their plentiful mirrors.”

 

* * *

 

_November 7, 1946_

_Belfast, Ireland_

 

It feels odd for Steve to be knocking on the door of his mother’s childhood home. Jenny answers the door, her apron covered in flour.

“Steve!” she says. “How nice to see you!”

“Hello Aunt Jenny,” he says.

“Where’s Peggy?” Jenny asks, shutting the door behind him.

“That’s why I’m here,” Steve says. “She…”

On seeing his expression, her own mirrors it.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Jenny says. “When?”

“Two months ago,” Steve says. “It…”

“No, no,” Jenny says. “You don’t need to tell me any more than you want to. Just come in and sit down.”

Steve perches awkwardly on the couch, and Jenny sits down next to him.

“Shh…” she quiets.

Something about the noise, the familiarity of it all, just like his mother had soothed him as a child, breaks down a dam inside Steve, and he finds himself sobbing on Jenny’s shoulder while she rocks him.

A few hours later, after he’s collected himself, they have dinner with Johanna while she and Jenny tell him stories of Sarah’s childhood. It’s a nice distraction, but they all feel the tension in the room.

“Steve,” Jenny says. “I think it’s time for you to go home.”

“I can’t,” Steve says. “She’s not there.”

“You have to, _a mhuirnín_ ,” Johanna says. “It’s the only way you’re going to heal.”

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

_November 8, 1946_

_Brooklyn, NY_

 

Steve comes home to an empty, stuffy apartment.

It hasn’t been opened in months.

He spends the night in the bed.

 

 

Alone.


	3. October 10-October 22 (B)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky in Brooklyn.

_October 10, 1946_

_Bern, Switzerland_

His foot hurts like a bitch, even after Bucky had gone to a clinic and had it splinted. The doctor had told him in no uncertain terms that he should have come in immediately, not a week after the injury. It had been about three hours.

The stewardess takes his bag from him and places it in the storage bin as he hobbles into his seat, letting his prosthetic hand take most of the weight. His right wrist is sore from the crutches. He tucks the damn things against the wall of the airplane, and fastens his seatbelt. A few moments later, the pilot is cleared, and the plane taxis to the runway. He heaves a sigh as it takes off.

 

* * *

 

_October 11, 1946_

_New York, NY_

The plane landing is bumpy in the pouring rain and thunderstorm. The city glitters in the falling water, and it certainly suits Bucky’s mood.

As he exits the airport, a car pulls up to the curb in front of him. The front window rolls down, and Howard Stark looks out at him.

“The hell happened to you?” he asks.

“I fell off a building,” Bucky replies sourly.

“Get in,” Stark says.

Having no other real option, Bucky complies.

 

* * *

 

_October 14, 1946_

_SHIELD HQ, Camp Lehigh, NJ_

Bucky nearly puts his fist through the wall.

“I’ve been here for three fucking days, Stark,” he says. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to talk to Zola,” Stark says. “We’ve been working on extracting him from SSR holding.”

“No,” Bucky says.

“What?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s pretty damn clear,” Bucky says, then turns and walks out of the room.

 

* * *

 

_October 15, 1946_

_Brooklyn, NY_

He goes home first, takes a shower, changes his clothes. It’s late when he finally makes it out to the corner store and finds ingredients for dinner. If it’s sausage, cheese, and bread, who’s there to judge him?

 

* * *

 

_October 20, 1946_

_Brooklyn_

Bucky stays in the apartment for five days, waiting for his foot to finish healing. On the fifth day, Stark comes over with a stack of reports.

“If you’re going to ignore your job, you can at least help Steve with his,” he says. “These are the latest reports of his whereabouts.”

Bucky looks them over, and shakes his head.

“What the fuck is he doing in France?” he asks.

“You can probably answer that one better than I can,” Stark says.

“Shit,” Bucky says. “Montagne.”

“Who?” Stark asks.

“The only other survivor of Zola’s serum experiments,” Bucky spits.

“Zola said there were three,” Stark says.

“If there are, then I don’t know the third,” Bucky says.

“Zola refused to tell us who it is,” Stark says. “Is Montagne dangerous?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. “But so is Steve.”

 

* * *

 

_October 21, 1946_

_Brooklyn_

Bucky’s sister Georgia finally shows up at his door and drags him out on the sixth day.

“Georgia, why must you do this?” he asks.

“Because you’ve been through a lot of shit, and we just want to support you,” she says. “Besides, Becca misses you most. She finally moved out. Got herself a roommate and everything.”

Bucky sighs, but goes with her. “How is Wendy?”

“She’s good. That bastard finally stopped harassing us after Becca hit him with a bat in the soft bits a few weeks ago,” Georgia says.

“Becca’s insane,” Bucky says.

“Yes, but so are you,” Georgia says.

Dinner is… good. It’s familiar in a way that Bucky wasn’t expecting. He hasn’t had a meal like this, without Steve (or Peggy, his mind supplies unhelpfully) since before Steve’s ma died. The family bickers over the mashed potatoes, pretending for all the world like nothing’s different.

He forgets, if only for an hour.

 

* * *

 

_October 22, 1946_

_Brooklyn_

Becca had urged him last night to come visit her at her new apartment. She assured him that he would like her new roommate, and said something about making cookies. With nothing better to do, he dresses, and goes to the address she gave him after dinner.

He takes his sweet time finding the building, getting lost in Brooklyn isn’t all that easy for someone who grew up there, but Becca seems to have found the absolute furthest building from anywhere he’s ever been in Brooklyn. Close without still living at home, Georgia had said.

He approaches the building, and is stopped by the doorman outside.

“What is your business here, sir?” the man asks, firmly but politely. How in the hell had Becca afforded an apartment with a _doorman?_

“I’m here to visit my sister,” Bucky says.

“Your sister,” the man repeats, skeptically.

“Rebecca Barnes, 6F,” Bucky says.

“And your name?”

“James Barnes,” Bucky says.

The doorman pulls out a small book, turns the page, and finds what he’s looking for.

“Ah, I apologize Mr. Barnes,” he says. “You’re on Ms. Barnes’ approved list. She isn’t in the building at the moment. She and her roommate went to the store.”

“Can you direct me to it?” Bucky asks.

“Just down there, sir,” the doorman says.

Bucky follows his pointing finger to a rather posh little bodega and enters, a bell tinkling softly.

He finds Becca in the bread aisle, her roommate next to her, a taller blonde woman.

“Bex?” he asks.

“Oh, Bucky!” Becca says, turning around. “You’re early!”

“I didn’t have much better to do,” Bucky says with a shrug.

“Let’s go back to the apartment,” Becca says.

“Don’t you have to finish shopping?” Bucky asks.

“We’re fine,” Becca says. “Maggie and I bake a lot of cookies, so we have all of the ingredients already.”

They make their way back to the building, and Bucky looks over at Maggie, whose short blonde hair keeps falling in her face, obscuring the features.

The doorman smiles at them on their way in, and they proceed to the elevator. A few mooments later, they’ve arrived at the door, and Becca produces a key to unlock it.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Becca says, waving him in.

“It sure is nice,” Bucky says, allowing skepticism to creep into his voice.

Becca doesn’t reply, but turns the lock on the door, then six more. She turns another dial on the wall, then slams a button next to it. The room suddenly comes alive with a faint hum.

“What the hell is that?” Bucky asks.

“It blocks sound from inside the apartment from leaking outside,” Becca said.

“Where did you get _that_?”

“Howard Stark,” Becca says, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

“And why is Howard Stark soundproofing your apartment?”

“Classified security,” a voice, presumably Maggie’s says from behind him. In an English accent. A very familiar English accent.

He whirls on the spot, and finds himself face to face with Peggy Carter. Chin length blonde hair, but it’s Peggy alright.

“How… what… I…” he says.

“Oh, shush,” Peggy says. “Come over here and kiss me, then tell me everything you and Steve have been doing for the past six weeks.”

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? You thought I was SERIOUS?!
> 
> (Also, I've been laughing my ass off for the last week and a half. This has been wonderful, but it's time to give everyone some happiness. Everyone. Including very, very small ones. Tiny. Like the size of a bean.)


	4. November 9 (S)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zola explains a thing.

_November 9, 1946_

_Brooklyn, New York and SHIELD HQ, Camp Lehigh, New Jersey_

* * *

 

The morning dawns cold, frost turning the sere grass silver. Steve reaches into the closet and blindly removes clothes, not bothering to check their fit. A cursory comb through his hair, and then goes to the kitchen for breakfast.

The refrigerator is, understandably, empty, but there is still some stale cereal in the cabinet. He wonders for a moment why Bucky didn’t come back home, but dismisses the thought, too heavy to consider right now.

He goes and sits by the window, considering his next move. He should go to SHIELD, he’s been AWOL for two months, and though Stark has been sending intel, he wrote with the first packet that it was all under the table and that none of the other agents knew that Steve was receiving this information.

Steve really doesn’t _want_ to go to SHIELD right now. He wants to crawl into bed. But he’s an adult, so he finds a pair of shoes in the hall closet and a jacket, and heads to New Jersey.

 

* * *

 

“You look like shit,” Howard Stark says by way of greeting.

“You look like an ass,” Steve replies.

“Point taken,” Stark says.

“What happens now?” Steve asks.

“How would you feel about…interviewing Zola for us?” Stark asks.

“How many pieces do you want him in?” Steve asks.

“One, but the prison guards won’t mind if he’s a bit damaged. Might do you some good,” Stark says.

Steve grunts.

“He’s down the hall in the first interview room,” Stark says. “Don’t pull off anything important.”

Steve stalks down the hall to the room, hisses once at the wall, then walks in, his face composed.

“Ah, Captain Rogers,” the toad sitting at the table drawls. “It is so nice to see you again. I trust you found all my accomplices?”

Steve nods curtly.

“Why don’t you take a seat? Looming doesn’t particularly intimidate me,” Zola says.

“I’d rather not,” Steve says.

“Have it your way, I do not care,” Zola says.

They stare at each other in silence for what seems like an hour.

Finally, Zola breaks it. “I suppose Mr. Montagne is deceased?”

“I shot him in the chest, if that’s what you’re asking,” Steve says.

“Ah,” Zola says.

“What do you mean by that?” Steve growls.

“The serum is very potent,” Zola says. “It takes more than a pesky bullet to the chest to die.”

“He wasn’t breathing,” Steve says.

“Whatever you choose to believe,” Zola says, then stands and paces to the wall. “I thought you might find it interesting to learn the limits of your own body.”

“You think your serum is better than Erskine’s?” Steve asks.

“Better?” Zola asks. “No, perhaps not. It does not respond to Vita-Rays in the same way. If you parked Mr. Barnes in a Vita-Ray chamber, nearly nothing would happen. A little muscle growth, perhaps, but no dramatic physical change. It is certainly _different_ than Dr. Erskine’s. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll tell you?”

Steve does take the suggestion this time, and Zola returns to his chair.

“What Schmidt asked me for was a super soldier. Not just a superior physical human, but a superior _mental_ human. This is what I focused on in my development. Using Dr. Erskine’s formula as a base, at least what formula I could divine from Schmidt’s DNA,” Zola says.

“Erskine’s formula seems to have done both,” Steve says.

“Have you ever asked Mr. Barnes a particularly difficult mathematics problem?” Zola asks.

“No,” Steve says. But to himself, he thinks that this may be the explanation to Bucky’s eerily accurate sniping skills.

“A shame,” Zola says. “Now, most of my test subjects were too physically weak to handle the initial physical changes of the serum. It does change a bit physically, strengthening bones and muscles, fixing congenital issues, and largely perfect the body of the test subject. When the first phase of the serum has completed, we injected the subject with a second serum, this one designed to target the brain. The by-product of this was a strong susceptibility to suggestion, and Schmidt found this useful for convincing those who survived the first phase that they wanted to serve Hydra. However, none of them made it back to sanity and clear-headedness. I suspect that because we didn’t have to attempt to suggest things to Montagne, he survived it better. And, as you know, you interrupted my work on Mr. Barnes.”

Steve clenches the table at that, feeling the wood splinter under his hands.

“The third and final phase is one of intense healing,” Zola continues, ignoring the cracking noise of the table. “This is the strength of my serum over Erskine’s. Healing begins almost instantaneously, and tissue growth is increased exponentially from a normal human’s capacity. Thus, I believe that Montagne is not as dead as you may believe.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Steve asks.

“I want you to understand why I had your wife shot,” Zola says simply.

Steve freezes.

“What.”

“I assume you remember San Francisco?” Zola says. “The Tesseract was bait. To be honest, Ms. Carter interested me as a test subject. I do not understand how the serum failed to take effect, but I had to find out somehow, thus I arranged to have her shot. It is unfortunate that it was in public.”

Steve stands, the chair flying out from behind him, and later forgets the next few moments, until two pairs of hands wrap themselves around his biceps, and drag him bodily out of the room. The door slams shut behind him.

“Get the hell off me,” Steve spits.

The pair of hands on his right arm drop immediately, and Stark jumps away, hands raised defensively.

“You were going to kill him,” he says.

“That was my intention,” Steve says dangerously.

“And rob us of all the fun?” Bucky says from behind him, finally letting go of his left arm.

“What?” Steve asks.

“We’re working on a suitably painful plan,” Bucky says. “It’s between freezing and what now?” he asks Stark.

“I think she said something about a volcano?” Stark says.

“A volcano?” Steve asks.

Any reply is cut off by a sudden noise from behind the door to the observation room.

“Oh, son of a bitch,” a woman’s voice says, then retching.

Bucky leans forward and swings the door open

“Still?” he asks.

“Twelve weeks my arse,” she says, standing up from where she had been leaning over the trash can. She scrubs her hand across her mouth. “However, that answered more than one of my questions.”

“Why did he volunteer all of that, though?” Bucky asks.

“To stir Steve up,” Peggy says. “And it looks like it worked.”

“I… what… I… Peggy?” Steve says.

By way of answer, she reaches up and pulls him down to kiss her. She still tastes a little bit like sick, but that’s the last thing on Steve’s mind as he picks her up and swings her around.

“But you were dead…” Steve says.

“Let’s go back to my office and we can talk about this,” Stark says.

They walk back to his office through deserted corridors, one of Steve’s arms slung over Peggy’s shoulders and the other over Bucky’s. When they reach the room, Stark sits behind his desk and the three of them sit in front of it.

“Why did you fake your death?” Steve asks Peggy.

“It wasn’t my decision,” she says. “You can thank Howard for that one. I was in a coma for the first week.”

“You thought this was the best course of action?” Steve asks, turning to Stark.

“Not the best for you, but the best for the organization. It was vital to the mission,” Stark says.

“If I didn’t have better things to do, you might see what’s _vital_ ,” Steve mutters.

“Let’s go home,” Peggy offers, dragging Steve up bodily, and hauling him out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story's going to be a lot brighter in tone from here on out.


	5. November 9-12, P

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy goes home. Steve is confused. Bucky looks good in red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to fluffland!

_November 9, 1946_

_Rogers-Carter-Barnes Apartment, Brooklyn, NY_

The first thing Peggy does when she walks through the door is run for the bathroom. Footsteps rush after her, but are abruptly arrested.

“That’s normal,” Bucky says.

“Normal since when?” Steve asks.

Returning to the living room, Peggy flops down on the couch, throwing an arm dramatically across her forehead. “Since Scotland, as far as I can figure,” she says. “Could someone get me a glass of water? This whole thing is rather disgusting.”

She is handed one a few moments later, and swallows it down.

“Where do you want me to start?” she asks Steve.

“The beginning,” he says, perching on the edge of the couch. Bucky’s taken up a position in the armchair, taking up rather more room than he perhaps should.

“You’re going to have to promise me you won’t be angry with Howard,” Peggy says.

“Oh, that’s asking a bit much, don’t you think, Pegs?” Bucky asked. “I saw the dents in his wall.”

“You’re going to have to promise me you won’t permanently damage Howard,” Peggy amends.

“We’ll see,” Steve says.

“After I was shot, Howard had me removed to a hospital where the bullets were removed. They were shocked that I was still alive, although now we understand why. For the first week, I was in a coma. I’m not entirely certain, but I believe that at least a few days of it were medically induced on Howard’s orders so that he could get his plan into place for the two of you to run across Europe, on a ‘path of destruction’.

“When I came to, I found myself in one of SHIELD’s safe houses. Somehow they managed to talk Becca into being my roommate, which was just as well, considering… It took a few more days until the bandages came off, by which time I was left with a mess of scars, but no permanent damage. As far as they’re able to tell, it’s entirely cosmetic. Becca managed to talk me into this hair, and once Howard ‘approved’ it, I’ve been able to function rather normally. Well… as normally as you can when it seems like half the world’s out to kill you and you’re supposed to be dead.”

“Your hair?” Steve asks. He squints, then blinks in surprise. “It’s blonde!”

Peggy and Bucky exchange a glance.

“You’re just noticing that now?” Bucky asks.

“My wife just returned from the dead, excuse me for missing a few details,” Steve says. “Can I see them?”

“The scars?” Peggy asks, surprised.

Steve nods. Peggy shrugs, stands up, and reaches up for the zipper at the back of her dress. It flutters to the floor a few seconds later, and she pulls the slip off over her head.

Steve stands, and extends a hand, softly brushing over the shiny pink surface that covers the entire width of Peggy’s décolletage and upper back.

“How many?” he asks.

“Six total,” she says. “The first one hit me here.” She takes his hand and places it on her right thigh, where the scars are smaller.

“Holy shit,” Steve breathes out. He kisses Peggy again, and reaches out behind him, gesturing for Bucky.

“I missed this,” Peggy says.

“I never thought I’d get this again,” Steve says. “There’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to keep this exactly the way it is right now.”

“How are you going to feel with another person?” Peggy asks.

Steve freezes, one hand in Peggy’s hair, the other on Bucky’s shoulder, where he’s somehow lost his shirt.

“Why are we getting another person?” he asks, trying not to sound too strangled.

“I… you don’t want…” Peggy stutters.

“Oh my Lord, Steve,” Bucky swears. “Why do you think Peggy’s been throwing up?”

“Side effect of the serum?” Steve says, definitely sounding strangled.

“Oh my Lord,” Peggy echos, then starts laughing, nearly hysterical, resting her head on Steve’s shoulder.

“What?” Steve asks.

Peggy nudges Bucky a step back, then takes a step away from Steve herself. “Take a good long look,” she says.

He does, dragging his gaze from the top of her blonde head to her toes. His eyes flick back up to her stomach after a second, and then she folds a hand protectively across it.

“No,” he says. “I… just… how?”

“I told you how babies were made when we were eleven,” Bucky says.

Steve blinks a few times, his expression still a mask of confusion and anxiety.

“Steve?” Peggy asks. “Is this okay?”

“Okay,” Steve repeats. “This is okay. We’re going to…”

“Have a baby,” Peggy finishes for him.

“We’re going to have a baby,” Steve says, then his expression changes, his entire face lighting up with a grin. “We’re going to have a baby!”

“It’s about damn time we had some good news,” Bucky says.

“It’s been a pretty good day for me,” Steve says.

“Why don’t we make it a good day for us all?” Peggy asks. “I think our bed has missed us.”

 

The next morning Peggy’s the last to wake, to the smell of pancakes. They’re sitting right next to her face, as it turns out. Steve’s lounging in bed, a tray balanced on his lap, chewing on the pancakes as he reads a newspaper. On her other side, Bucky’s leaning against the headboard, a book in his hand. She cocks her head to read the title, _Adventures in Time and Space_.

“Strawberry?” Steve asks. Peggy opens her mouth, and bites off the fruit, chewing thoughtfully.

“Do you think Howard would say anything if we took the next week off?” she asks.

“Are you kidding?” Bucky asks. “After the shit he just pulled? A week’s nothing.”

“Good point. I can think of several things I’d rather be doing over the next week,”

 

* * *

 

_November 12, 1946_

_Becca Barnes’ Apartment, Brooklyn, NY_

“There are a lot of things you can do well, Peggy,” Becca says, pulling gloves on and picking up the bottle of brown hair dye. “But being blonde is not one of them.”

“I can’t sing either,” Peggy says.

“No one’s perfect,” Becca says.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Bucky says from the doorway of the room that Peggy’s been staying in for the last two months.

Wearing Peggy’s red dress.

Becca and Peggy both freeze for a moment, then burst into hysterical laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Steve calls from the kitchen.

“Oh my… come here,” Peggy manages to get out.

Bucky strikes a pose. “I was packing your things to take home, and this just happened to look like it was my size,” he says.

“Sorry Buck, I think Peggy still wears that one better than you,” Steve says, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” Peggy says. “James, turn around.”

Bucky obliges, and does his best model impression as the laughter grows stronger, then joins in himself.

“If you split the seams of that, I’m not going to be very happy,” Peggy says.

“Oh, I know,” Bucky says. “But we all needed a good laugh.”

“You do have the legs for that dress,” Becca says. “If you ever want one that fits properly, I know a guy.”

“Of course you do,” Bucky mutters, still chuckling, then goes into the bedroom to put his own clothes back on.

 

As Peggy folds the last shirt and tucks it into her dresser, Steve comes up behind her and drapes his arms over her shoulders. She shuts the drawer then leans back into him.

“It’s going to be different now, isn’t it?” she says.

He doesn’t reply, sensing that she wasn’t really seeking an answer.

“Different doesn’t mean bad, though. Hydra’s gone, we’re going to have a baby, and we know what James looks like in a dress,” she says.

“That last is very important,” Steve says.

“Oh, I want to know what you look like in one of those Captain America chorus girl skirts,” Peggy says.

“Never,” Steve says.

“Too late!” Bucky says from the doorway, then tackles Steve to the bed, sitting on his chest.

Peggy holds his ankles down with one hand while she wrestles his pants off with the other. Bucky hands her the skirt , and she nearly gets kicked in the face as she shimmies it up over his hips. Bucky springs off, and Steve leaps to his feet.

He pauses thoughtfully in front of the mirror.

“It’s… not that bad,” he finally concedes, turning back, Peggy and Bucky are making nearly identical expressions. Leers.

“Oh, you need to wear that always,” Peggy says.

“The serum was worth it just for that,” Bucky says.

“For what?” Steve asks.

“That ass,” Bucky says, then pulls Steve into bed by it.

 _It’s good to be home_ , Peggy thinks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story's going to end up with someone permanently dead. But as for who? You'll just have to wait and see. (Or guess. If you guess right, you win a cookie.)


	6. November 20 (S, P, B)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witching hour in Brooklyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an odd little chapter I had no intention of writing originally. But it came to me at 230 in the morning, about what time it takes place.

_November 20, 1946_

_Rogers-Carter-Barnes Apartment, Brooklyn, NY_

Steve wakes in a panic, sitting up, sweat pouring down his face, hair soaked. It’s the middle of the night, and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the light coming in through the window. The blinds throw slats of yellowish light from the street across the room, making it look like some kind of crazed carnival fun house. A soft sigh from his left draws his attention, and he remembers the dream, nightmare really, that he had been woken from so violently.

Fractured images of red stained snow and other things he doesn’t care to think about flash through his mind, but he shoves them away. Bucky and Peggy are both still asleep, she sleeps between them these days, an unspoken agreement, as this is not the first time one of them has woken up in the middle of the night afraid she’s gone again. Her hair pools on the pillow, mingling with Bucky’s where they rest nearly forehead to forehead. Day would show them to be chestnut and chocolate, but in the darkness, they’re matching shades of inky black.

Steve brushes a few strands out of Peggy’s face, caressing the curve of her chin, not in the least reassuring himself that she’s real. He mirrors the action on Bucky’s face, then, with a little hesitation, drops his hand down to Peggy’s midsection.

“Hello,” he murmurs.

 

Peggy wakes when Steve does, but doesn’t move, not wanting to disturb him from whatever he might be thinking. If he needs them, he’ll wake them up. It’s happened before. A few shaky breaths later, his weight shifts, and he strokes her face softly.

He moves his hand away, then returns it to her, covering the barely-noticeable curve of her stomach.

“Hello,” he says softly. “I… don’t really know what to say, or if you can even hear me, but I just wanted to talk to you.”

There’s a pause, and then he takes a deep breath. “My pa died before I was even born, and my ma raised me all on her own. I was a skinny, sick kid. You’re never going to believe me, not when you see what I look like now, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Ma was a nurse. She grew up in Ireland, came here when she was just 15. Sarah Claire McKenna found herself living in Brooklyn of all places, and one day she met a nice young man named Joey Rogers. That’s my pa. He was Irish, but American born. They loved each other, but the Great War took him away, and I never knew him.

“Ma never married anyone else, I think she was too busy worrying about me, and never had the time or energy to go out and find someone. She could’ve. She was real pretty. Red hair, blue eyes, smiling all the time. When I was 19, she caught tuberculosis from the sick ward, and couldn’t shake it. She died, and it was damn near the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, figure out how to move on. How to keep living. Your… well, I don’t know what you’re going to call him, but Bucky probably saved my life in the weeks after that. I’ve never told him that.”

 

Bucky wakes at the sound of his name, feeling the knuckles of Steve’s hand pressed against his side. Steve has his hand pressed between Bucky and Peggy, and is speaking, Bucky soon realizes to the baby.

“Family’s not something we define around here,” he says. “As if the three of us weren’t odd enough, you’ve got Bucky’s entire family, the strange collection of friends Peggy (that’s your ma) keeps at work, and Becca. Well, I suppose Becca’s probably part of that first group, but she’s odd enough to get a special mention. You’re going to like your aunt Becca. Bucky’s sisters always welcomed me into their home, but Becca especially took a shine to me. I’ve always been there, in and out of their house, since she was born. Unexpected baby of the family, Bucky pulled me out of a fight two years before she was born.

“I was always getting into tussles, even at five, and Bucky pulled me right out of one, dragged me home, and demanded that his ma give me a cookie. He hasn’t let go of me since. Well… just the once.”

Bucky knows what Steve’s pause means. He’s thinking about the train again. Bucky’s fingers itch to reach out and clasp Steve’s hand, but he’s fairly certain Steve’s only doing this because he thinks no one can hear him.

“I thought my ma dying was the hardest thing I’d ever have to deal with, but that’s only because I never really entertained the possibility that Bucky could die. And he did. For two damn weeks I thought he was dead. And then for two damn months I thought your ma was dead,” Steve says, and chokes on a sob. “I’m never letting any of you go again. I don’t think I can handle another person dying. I’m just not strong enough.”

 

Steve scrubs his cheeks, coated with salty tears, roughly with his hand before rising and going to the kitchen for a drink of water. He hadn’t meant to start crying, but at least it was in the privacy of the middle of the night.

He goes back to bed, lying down and putting his hand back over the baby.

“What I mean by all this is that you have a _lot_ of people that love you, tiny bean. You’re going to be the most loved baby this city’s ever seen. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that nothing bad ever happens to you. I love you, and I don’t even know you yet. Good night, and try to stop making your ma so miserable all the time.”

With this, he closes his eyes, a peace settling over him, and drifts back to sleep.

 

Peggy registers the change in Steve’s breathing that means he’s back to dreaming, and her own eyes flick open, meeting Bucky’s, shiny in the streetlight, inches away from her own.

“How much of that did you hear?” she whispers.

“I’m not sure,” he replies.

“The part about Sarah dying?”

“No,” Bucky replies.

“He said you saved his life,” she says.

“He doesn’t know how many times he’s saved mine by simply existing,” Bucky replies.

“That’s…” she says.

“I know. Go back to sleep. Everything’ll be better in the morning,” he says.

She smiles at him, and closes her eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.

 

Bucky watches Peggy go back to sleep, smile still playing at her lips. He brings his left hand up into the slatted light, and flexes it, still astonished sometimes by the sheer flexibility of the thing. He hates Stark for a lot of things, including the last two months, but he’ll always be indebted to him for this.

He’d seen it as a burden at first, something to be hidden beneath sleeve and glove, but neither Steve nor Peggy seemed to have any reaction to it anymore, and sometimes Bucky forgot it was even there.

Shaking off a strange feeling of discontent, he places his hand over Steve’s, lacing their fingers together, tan and silver.

He closes his eyes, not expecting to be able to fall asleep again, but dreams envelop him before he even has time to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and it's Zola, you guys. The cookies have been distributed, and Steve, Bucky, Peggy, the baby, and Howard all make it out of this story juuuuust fine.


	7. November 21 (P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy starts getting her life back in order. Howard gets what's coming to him. Angie breaks a coffee pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a massive nerd and used the internet to [ make Peggy's office a real thing](http://roomstyler.com/rooms/10499618/peggy-s-office-office). Also, this chapter contains a massive, massive amount of pseudoscience. Mostly for plot reasons but also because I can. (And I've had that particular scene planned since the beginning.)

_November 21, 1946_

_SHIELD HQ, Camp Lehigh, NJ_

It’s the Thursday before Thanksgiving when she goes back to work. What she wasn’t expecting was that somehow Howard had neglected to mention her return from the “dead”. Another piece of coal for his Christmas stocking.

Steve and Bucky have an early morning briefing, so they go in together. The office is empty, most of the lights off, desks cleared of anything that could even remotely be considered confidential. Peggy starts toward her office, the door shut and blinds pulled when something catches her attention. The left side of the room is covered in chalkboards and corkboards that hold critical pieces of information for current operations, but a portable board has been rolled up in front of them.

“Margaret Eva ‘Peggy’ Carter” is scrawled across the top.

It’s covered in documents and maps, with one large picture at the center. Howard must have had it taken while she was in a coma, as the picture shows in stark contrast a very pale version of herself, and for all intents and purposes she looks dead.

Peggy’s about to grab the picture when the lights come on. She turns around, and Daniel Sousa drops his coffee cup.

“Director,” he says after a few moments. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Agent Sousa,” Peggy says just as nonchalantly.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says.

“That’s been the general reaction for the past few weeks,” Peggy says. “You can take it up with Mr. Stark if you want to.”

“I think he’ll get quite enough heat from other people,” Daniel says.

“Oh, he will be,” Peggy says. “Here, let me help you with that.” She grabs a napkin, and wipes up the mess, throwing the coffee and shards into a nearby trashcan. “How is Angie?”

“She’s… well she misses you a lot,” Daniel says.

“This wouldn’t have been my first choice,” Peggy says.

“I know,” he says. “But would you go see her soon? She’s been obsessively rearranging her bridal party for weeks.”

“Daniel!” Peggy says. “Did you propose?”

“No,” he says. “At least not yet.”

“You’re nervous she’ll say no,” Peggy says.

“Just a bit,” he says.

“You’ll do fine. She’s already picking out attendants.”

“Thanks, Peggy. It’s really been different around here without you.”

“My pleasure,” she says.

With that, he goes back to the conference room to make himself another cup of coffee, and she goes into her office. It’s dark and stuffy in there, as if no one had been in here since September. Flicking on the lights, she finds things covered in a thin layer of dust. Dropping her jacket and purse onto the desk, she goes in search of some kind of cleaning cloth.

 

Several more people see a ghost before 8 am, when everyone is supposed to be in by, and Peggy takes to hiding in her office. Finally, Howard comes into her office around 9:30 and flops down on the couch.

“Apparently there’s a ghost haunting the office,” he says.

“Oh?” Peggy asks from behind a stack of reports.

“Surprisingly alive-looking for a dead person,” he says.

“And whose fault would _that_ be?” she asks.

“Touché,” he replies. “I have something I thought you might be interested in.”

“And that is?” she says.

He tosses a file onto her desk, nearly upsetting the precarious stacks already there.

“Have a look at those and then come talk to me,” he says.

She opens the file and a series of numbers stare back at her. The longer she looks at it, the more patterns start to jump out at her. She flips to the next page, and a similar pattern exists there. On this page, however, a name is scrawled across the top: _Rogers, Steven G._ The file contains several more pages, a pair with Steve’s name, a pair with hers, one with Bucky’s, one with Rebecca Barnes’s, and the first unlabeled one. Sighing heavily, Peggy gets up and goes to Howard’s office.

“All right, what are they?” she asks, slamming the file down on his desk.

“Nice to see you too,” he says mildly. “They’re genetic codes.”

“Why?” she asks.

“How closely did you look at them?” he says.

“I don’t know how to read them,” she says.

“Sit down,” he says. “See here? These patterns?”

She examines the numbers he’s pointing at, then nods.

“This is your DNA after San Francisco,” he says, then reaches for another piece of paper. “This is it before.”

She compares them for a minute, then says, “The patterns aren’t there.”

“Exactly,” Howard says. “Now look at these.” He pushes one of the sheets with Steve’s name and the one with Bucky’s name toward her. The same patterns are there.

“That one’s Steve’s before Project Rebirth, I assume,” Peggy says. “But why do you have a copy of Becca Barnes’?”

“We don’t have any DNA from Barnes from before the war, so we went with a close relative. I would’ve preferred a brother, but there’s nothing we can do about that now,” Howard says. “See how close they are? Even for siblings those genetic codes are pretty close.”

“This pattern is the serum,” she says.

“That’s the only explanation I’ve been able to come up with,” Howard says.

“What about this?” she asks, indicating the sheet with no name on it.

“That… wasn’t supposed to be in that file,” he says.

“Why?” she asks. “And don’t stonewall me, Howard. I’ve had enough of that to last an entire lifetime.”

“You’re smart, you figure it out,” he says.

She pulls it closer to her, then looks at all the other ones.

“It’s a female,” she says.

“That’s true,” he says.

“She has the markers for the serum,” she says.

“Also true.”

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “That’s the baby. Where the hell did you get that?”

“It wasn’t dangerous at all!” he says. “You were still in a coma.”

She takes a deep breath, then says, “You’re done making my decisions for me.”

“I…”

“No, Howard. You’re _done_ making my decisions for me. If I’m not capable of making a choice because, for instance, I’ve just been _shot_ and am _dying_ , you have two _very qualified_ people you can ask. Do you understand me?” she fumes, volume rising with each word.

He stares at her wide-eyed, then nods.

“I don’t think you understand exactly how much damage your choices in the past few months have made to my life, damage that I have to deal with now. I’m going to do that, and I’m going to do it without complaining. But if you _ever_ do _anything_ like that again, you’re going to find yourself with a problem on your hands.”

“I… understand,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t make the same choice now.”

“Hindsight’s 20/20,” she says, rising and stalking out the door.

As she makes her way back through the bullpen, everyone stares at her. She stops at her office door, and turns to face the room. “If you want to know exactly what’s happened in the last two months, you can go bother Mr. Stark about it. The short story is that I’m not dead… and a little more indestructible that previously thought. Any questions?”

The entire room shakes their heads.

“Sousa? Can I talk to you for a minute in here?”

Peggy sits down on the couch, reaching for a box of saltines. The confrontation with Howard has given her heartburn.

“Ma’am?” Daniel asks from the door.

“Sit down,” she says.

He does so, gingerly on the armchair.

“As you know, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands for the past few weeks,” she says. “And I’ve been working on something. Becca took to calling it _So You Married A Spy, Now What?_. It’s a guide for the spouses of SHIELD agents, at least those who want or need their wives to be read-in.”

“And you want to test drive it on Angie,” he says.

“I do,” she says.

“That’s… actually not a bad idea,” he says.

She goes to her desk and pulls a bound stack of paper out of it. “Read this, and then tell me what you think of it. If it seems reasonable, we’ll go from there,” she says.

“So you don’t want me to come out with ‘Oh, by the way I’m a spy’?” he asks.

“No,” Peggy says. “Although, knowing Angie, that would probably go over well. I’m going to see her tonight, by the way.”

“Good,” he says.

 

* * *

 

_November 21, 1946_

_The Automat Where Angie Works, Brooklyn, NY_

 

Peggy walks into the Automat, hands curled into fists pulled inside her jacket to keep them from shaking. She hadn’t expected this to be as nerve-wracking as it is. She’s faced down honest-to-God Nazis for Pete’s sake; one friendly actress shouldn’t be so scary.

She pays for a slice of pie at the wall and takes it to an empty booth. A few minutes later, Angie comes out from behind the counter with a pot of coffee.

“Want some coffee, hun?” she asks.

“Do you have any tea?” Peggy says, tilting her head up.

Angie drops the coffee pot.

“Hello,” Peggy says.

“You… you’re… I…. you’re not dead,” she says.

“True,” Peggy says. “And I can’t tell you why right now.”

“Because of your _phone company_ job,” Angie says.

“Precisely,” Peggy says.

“But you’ll tell me eventually?” Angie asks.

“Sooner rather than later if everything goes according to plan,” Peggy says.

“Come here and give me a hug,” Angie says.

Peggy stands and embraces Angie.

Angie holds her at arm’s length and looks her up and down. “You’re pregnant aren’t you?”

“Four months,” Peggy says.

“Damn it’s good to have you back, English,” Angie says.

“It’s good to be back.”


	8. November 26-28 (P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving and what not to name your child.

_November 26, 1946_

_Barnes Residence, Brooklyn, NY_

“It’s our first Thanksgiving with no rationing in a few years!” Winifred Barnes says.

“Ma, we didn’t have rationing last year,” Georgia says.

“We still ran out of butter,” Winifred counters.

“How big is the turkey?” Helen asks.

“Twenty five pounds,” Becca says.

“Exactly how many people are you intending to invite, Rebecca?” Winifred asks.

Becca mutters to herself and counts on her fingers, “Ten, not including Tommy. And two of those people are pregnant women.”

“There aren’t that many of us,” Helen says. “There can’t be.”

“Mom, Dad, you, Richard, Georgia, Bucky, me, Steve, Peggy, and Georgia said she invited Wendy,” Becca says.

“Don’t forget the grandparents!” Georgia says.

“So that’s thirteen now,” Becca says.

“Is the table big enough for all of that?” Winifred asks.

Becca shrugs. “We have enough chairs.”

Peggy stands in the doorway of the kitchen, watching the Barnes women negotiate the intricacies of Thanksgiving.

“Is it always this complicated?” she mutters to Bucky, standing next to her.

“It was actually worse when Steve’s ma was alive. She and my ma had very different opinions on how to truss a turkey,” he replies.

“The thighs should not go that close to the body!” Winifred snaps.

“Sarah usually lost that argument,” Bucky finishes.

“Sarah Rogers was a lovely woman, but cooking was not her strong suit,” Winifred says. “She seemed to want to boil everything.”

At this, Bucky bursts into laughter.

“Oi, shut it,” Peggy says. “You have to live with me, and I _will_ boil everything if you’re not careful.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky mutters between snorts.

Peggy only rolls her eyes.

 

* * *

 

_November 27, 1946_

_Rogers-Carter-Barnes Apartment, Brooklyn, NY_

“Why did I volunteer to do the mashed potatoes?” Peggy nearly wails from the stove, with this, she bursts into tears.

“Why are you crying?” Steve asks helplessly, patting her on the back.

“Because I burned them!” she says, and starts crying harder.

“They’re just potatoes!”

“But they’re for _Thanksgiving!_ ”

“We can get more,” he tries.

“But these ones are _ruined!_ ”

The door to the apartment opens, and Bucky comes in, followed by Louisa and Becca.

“What…” Bucky starts.

“I burned the potatoes!”

“They’re just potatoes,” Bucky says before Steve can stop him.

“Steve, Bucky, why don’t you two go get some new potatoes?” Louisa says. “Take your time.”

A very confused pair of men stumble out the door, and down the hall. Becca pushes it shut behind them.

“Let’s throw these out,” Louisa gently suggests. “Why don’t you sit down at the table and have a drink of water.”

“They’re right!” Peggy says shakily. “They’re just potatoes!”

“Sit down, _tesoro,_ ” Louisa says. “Rebecca, get rid of those.”

“Why am I crying so much?” Peggy asks. “Yesterday I dropped a folder and cried for ten minutes.”

“It’s the baby,” Louisa says. “The emotions are far closer to the surface in a pregnant woman. When I was pregnant with Winifred, I nearly killed her father when he left the icebox door open one too many times.”

“When Helen was pregnant with Tommy, Richard left a dish overnight in the sink. Helen woke him up the next morning and told him that if he didn’t wash it he was to sleep on the couch for a week,” Becca says.

Louisa produces a handkerchief and offers it to Peggy.

“This is normal?” Peggy asks.

“Completely,” Louisa says.

“How do people deal with it?”

“Laugh it off, darling, laugh it off.”

 

* * *

 

_November 28, 1946_

_Barnes Residence, Brooklyn, NY_

 

The new batch of mashed potatoes (made that morning, with convincing from Becca who reminded Peggy of what happens to day-old mashed potatoes) graces a table groaning with food in a house filled to the seams. The turkey is the crowning achievement, and it takes two people to carry it out into the dining room. Peggy claims a whole drumstick for herself, and most of the bird quickly disappears.

She takes up residence on a particularly plush chair, and nearly falls asleep before someone comes up to talk to her.

“So have you decided on a name yet?” Helen asks, pulling a chair up.

“I have a few ideas,” Peggy says, “But we haven’t really talked about any in particular.”

“The men always want a junior if it’s a boy,” Helen says. “Although, Steve might not. Richard did. I had to talk him out of it.”

“How?” Peggy asks.

Helen leans in closer, “I told him that it would feel very strange for me to be calling out my son’s name in the middle of… well.”

“Oh my,” Peggy says. “I hadn’t even considered _that_. How did you come up with Thomas?”

“He’s Thomas Richard, and Richard is Richard Thomas,” Helen says. “I could agree to that on the condition that I got full rights to name the next one. I’ve convinced him it’s Wyman or Marilou.”

“I actually like Marilou,” Peggy says.

“You can have it if you want it,” Helen says. “I’m thinking probably Peter or Susan. Maybe Susannah.”

“What are we talking about?” Georgia asks, sitting on the arm of Peggy’s chair.

“Baby names,” Helen says.

“Still got Richard convinced about Wyman?” Georgia asks.

“Every morning he tries to convince me to change my mind!” Helen says. “I’m actually starting to like it…”

“I’m still hoping for Bob,” Georgia says.

“Don’t you think Robert and Richard are a little close?” Peggy asks.

“Just Bob by itself,” Georgia says.

“It’s a good thing this decision isn’t up to you,” Helen says with a pained expression.

Georgia sticks her tongue out. “What about you, Peggy?”

“I like Michael,” Peggy says. “I’m lost for girls’ names, though.”

“Marie!” Bucky says from behind Helen.

“Wasn’t that the French prostitute who propositioned you in Paris?” Peggy asks.

“No, that was Genevieve. Nice dame…” Bucky says.

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Nothing French,” she says.

“Buckella,” Georgia suggests. “Honor her uncle Bucky!”

“No,” Bucky says. “Just… no.”

 

Dessert is served with several heaping bowls of whipped cream, which Tommy promptly buries his hands into and tries to throw at his mother. Helen rolls her eyes and takes him upstairs for a bath (and a nap).

The day lasts several hours into the night, and before they know it, it’s time to go home.

“Buckella’s growing on me,” Bucky says.

“Buckella?” Steve asks.

“Georgia’s suggesting baby names,” Peggy says. “And we are not naming her Buckella.”

“I’ll agree with you on that one,” Steve says.

“Do you have any actual ideas?” Peggy asks.

“I hadn’t given it much thought…” Steve says. “We have a few more months, right?”

“About five,” Peggy says.

“Aphrodite!” Bucky says.

“I… actually like that,” Peggy says.

“So do I,” Steve says.

“How about for a boy?” Peggy asks. “I like Michael.”

“Michael’s nice,” Steve says.

“How about Larry?” Bucky asks.

“I’m not fond of Lawrence,” Peggy says. “Former boyfriend.”

“Can we all agree no names of former lovers?” Steve says.

“Absolutely,” Peggy says.

“Guess that rules out Aphrodite…” Bucky says.

“Where the hell have you been?” Steve asks.

“There was a nice… woman in the Army before you went and became a beefcake,” Bucky says defensively.

“No on Aphrodite, then,” Peggy says.

“Why don’t we talk about this later?” Steve says. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m about ready to fall asleep.”

“After Christmas,” Bucky says.

“After Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I'm not naming the baby Buckella. (In fact, the name is nowhere in this chapter. But is French.)


	9. December 1-11 (P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard apologizes, snow flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god I'm going to finish this thing before the year's out! Just gotta make it 'til March, then we can jump to July! C'mon C****! You can make it out of your mom!

_December 1, 1946_

_London, England_

Howard’s shivering in the cold English late fall day as he knocks on the door. Something about poetic justice seems right.

It opens a few moments later to reveal a very harried Harrison Carter.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“I’m Howard Stark,” Howard says. “And I’m here to issue a formal apology.”

“You’re Howard Stark,” Harrison says. “What do you have to apologize for?”

Howard gestures behind him to where Peggy is examining her nails.

“Why don’t you come inside,” Harrison suggests after a brief silence.

They end up sitting awkwardly perched in the parlor, where each piece of furniture has been perfectly placed to facilitate conversation. The furniture hasn’t changed since Peggy was a small child, and their mother had had a professional come in and arrange the entire house.

“Why don’t you continue, Howard?” Peggy says.

“Oh, right, of course,” Howard says. “I… may have given the impression that Peggy was dead. To the, uh, entire world.”

“Howard,” Peggy warns.

“I want to apologize for the emotional pain and turmoil I’ve caused because of my actions,” Howard says.

Harrison glances from Howard to Peggy and back again. “What’s going on?” he asks finally.

“I assume that Steve told you the serum and his being Captain America,” Peggy says.

“He did,” Harrison says.

“Well, as it turns out, apparently I make a great guinea pig. Zola not only managed to get his version of the serum into me, but then arranged my shooting to see if it had worked. Howard took it upon himself to make everyone think I was dead so Hydra could be eliminated,” Peggy says.

“Again, I’m very sorry for that,” Howard says.

“I… need a cup of tea,” Harrison says. “Would you like one?”

“Three sugars, no cream,” Peggy says.

“With a shot of something strong,” Howard says.

An hour passes in tense awkward conversation until the front door slams open and the wind blows in three women.

“Harry, Ellie’s friend Patricia is coming over for dinner,” Charlotte says, wrestling her coat off and hanging it on the coat rack.

“We’re going to need a bigger table,” Harrison says.

“What was that?” Charlotte asks, coming into the parlor. “Oh, I didn’t know you had people over.”

“Hello, Charlotte,” Peggy says.

Charlotte whips around, eyes wide. “You’re not dead!”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” Peggy says wryly.

Howard spends the next hour apologizing to Charlotte, Eleanor, and their nanny Bess.

Dinner turns out to be Eleanor’s request, curried chicken. It doesn’t seem like a problem until halfway into the dessert course, when Peggy’s stomach turns traitor. She quietly excuses herself, and goes to sit in the bathroom, willing the heartburn to go away.

After about 5 minutes, Charlotte knocks on the door. “Are you all right?” she asks.

“Do you have any saltines?” Peggy replies.

“In the pantry. Do you want some?” Charlotte says.

Peggy opens the door, “I forgot how spicy Harry’s curry is.”

“It’s never bothered you before,” Charlotte says, her eyes narrowing. “And it never bothered me except when I was pregnant with Ellie.”

“Saltines?” Peggy asks.

Charlotte leads her to the pantry and hands her a box of crackers, then leans casually against the counter. “When are you due?” she asks.

“April or so,” Peggy says around a mouthful of crumbs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she never came out though.”

“It does seem that way, especially in the last weeks,” Charlotte says. “Did you tell Harry?”

“Not yet,” Peggy says. “I was too busy embarrassing Howard. He really does deserve it, after all. In fact, I plan on making him apologize to Steve’s mother’s family when they come around for Christmas.”

“You’re diabolical,” Charlotte says.

“I know,” Peggy says, and pops another saltine in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

_December 11, 1946_

_Manhattan, NY_

The snow’s soft that day, nothing like the bitter blizzards of the Alps during the war years, and it’s not enough to remind any of them why they collectively loathe winter.

“How about Dorothy?” Bucky suggests, reading a newspaper.

“Dottie?” Steve says. “No. Remember Dottie Stole?”

“Do I even want to know?” Peggy asks, scanning the window of a store with a train display.

“Not really,” Steve says.

“Jenelle!” Bucky says!

“No,” Peggy says.

“Damn,” Bucky says.

“I’ve told you before, I’m going to name her before you even get to meet her,” Peggy says. “It’s a Carter family tradition! Harry was lobbying for Beulah for Eleanor, and when he held her for the first time, he actually called her Beulah. Charlotte damn near had a fit, and told him her name was Eleanor and she would hear no arguments on the subject.”

“Doesn’t Ellie have two middle names?” Steve asks.

“Phillipa Alice,” Peggy says. “I’ve already got a name in mind, and it’s only one middle name, I promise.”

“If I don’t like it, I’m going to call her Buckella,” Bucky mutters.

“You already do call her Buckella,” Steve says.

“It’s a great name!”

An elderly woman chooses that moment to approach them. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” she says, “but I have to say, please don’t name your child Buckella.”

Peggy nearly cackles in delight. “Oh, I won’t let him name her in the first place. Everyone’s going to be very happy with my choice,” she says.

“Well good luck to you and yours, and have a Merry Christmas,” the woman says.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve says.

They stroll down the street, snow twinkling in the streetlights, stopping to look at the window displays.

Eventually, Peggy decides to go into a store. She leaves half an hour later with a bag full of tiny dresses.

 

They return to their apartment to find that the heat has broken. Again.

“We need to get a new apartment,” Peggy says.

“I agree with you completely,” Bucky says.

“But this place is so expensive already,” Steve says, going to the radiator in an attempt to fix it.

“Steve,” Peggy starts, “do you know how much money we make?”

“Not enough to afford a bigger apartment,” Steve says.

Peggy and Bucky exchange a glance.

“Oh, you can take this one, James,” she says.

“Steve, combined we probably could buy this building,” Bucky says.

“What?” Steve asks, as the heat comes back on with a loud shudder and crack.

“You and Peggy are the highest paid SHIELD employees,” Bucky says. “Howard doesn’t get paid, for obvious reasons. And you’re making money from the royalties of the Captain America movies. Hell, you get paid for the horror show that is the Captain America Adventure Hour.”

“I thought we were never going to mention that travesty again,” Peggy mutters.

“There, there, dear,” Bucky says, patting her shoulder.

She makes a face at him.

“I… think I need to sit down for a moment,” Steve says, and flops heavily onto the couch.

“Steve, did you seriously not know?” Peggy asks.

“I had no idea,” he says. “I knew we were comfortable, but not… that comfortable.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been donating to charities,” Peggy says.

“You should put on a sweater,” he says after a few moments.

“Excuse me?” Peggy says.

“It’s cold in here, you should put on a sweater,” Steve says. “For Buckella’s sake.”

“Why don’t _you_ warm me up, if you’re so concerned about it?” she asks, with a raised eyebrow.

“I might just,” he says, then stands and scoops her off her feet.

“Serum turned you into a damn furnace,” Bucky says when they enter the bedroom. “Might as well take advantage of it.”

And so they do.


	10. December 17-18 (S, P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna and Janet McKenna arrive in Brooklyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tentatively set the chapter number for this story at 15, but that's +/- 2.

_December 17, 1946_

_Brooklyn, NY_

The sun was still below the horizon when Steve awoke to a pounding on the door.

“What the hell?” Bucky muttered, turning his face into the pillow. “Human decency!”

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, and reaches for a shirt, hissing as his feet hit the cold floor. The clock in the kitchen reads 6:17. He gets to the door and yanks it open with a “What?”.

“Good morning to you too,” a lilting Irish voice says.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Steve says, standing back to let his aunt and grandmother into the apartment. “We weren’t expecting you until later.”

“Boat got in early!” Johanna says. “We can’t check into the hotel yet, and we didn’t know anywhere else to go.”

“Oh, of course,” Steve says. “Here, let me get your coats. Do you want something to eat? Drink?”

“I’d like some tea,” Jenny says, sitting down on the couch with a groan.

“I’m… not allowed to use the teapot anymore,” Steve says, flushing with embarrassment.

“Whyever not?” Johanna asks.

“I almost shattered one once,” Steve says.

“It was my grandmother’s china,” Peggy says from the kitchen table. “You can use the metal teapot.”

“I make horrible tea, you said!” Steve says.

“Steve, I eat mostly saltines all day. Most things taste horrible to me,” she replies. “I need 17 sugars in my tea as of late. Buckella seems to have a sweet tooth.”

“So that’s why there’s sugar on the grocery list every week,” Steve says.

Peggy throws a saltine at him, and it hits him in the forehead.

“Make them tea,” Peggy says, gesturing to the stove, where there’s already a kettle with hot water.

Steve turns to the women on the couch, “Sugar, cream?” he asks.

“Two sugars, light cream,” Jenny says.

“Do you have lemon?” Johanna asks. At Steve’s nod, she says “Just a bit, please.”

Steve gets tea, followed by a long, awkward silence.

“So I’m just going to pretend I’m not the elephant in the room,” Peggy says after a while, cautiously biting into an orange.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Jenny says.

“The short story is that Howard Stark owes you an apology,” Peggy says. “I have that arranged for tomorrow. Next stop on his train to Humbletown.”

“It’s good to see you alive, chit,” Johanna says.

“Thank you,” Peggy says, and stands to give Johanna a hug.

“Oh my!” Johanna says. “When did that happen?”

“Apparently on our honeymoon,” Steve says. “Excuse me, I left something in the bedroom.” He gets up and leaves.

“You’re glowing, dear,” Jenny says.

“Thank you,” Peggy says. “It’s probably all the salt in the saltines.”

“When I was pregnant with James,” Johanna starts, “he’s my third, I could eat nothing but saltines for the entire fifth and sixth months. With Sarah it was all apples.”

“That explains the apple cake,” Peggy says. A sudden movement in the doorway to the bedroom catches her eye, and she sees Bucky, pantsless, duck back into the room.

“Apple cake?” Jenny asks.

“It’s Steve’s favorite food,” Peggy says. “We’re having some for Christmas Eve dessert.”

“I look forward to it!” Jenny says.

“So do I,” Steve says, returning to the table, apparently having completed Bucky-moving tasks.

There’s a lull in conversation, and it’s all Peggy can do not to burst out laughing as Bucky sneaks into the guest bedroom, now fully dressed. It’s supposed to be his room, after all.

“Have you decided what you’re going to name the baby?” Johanna asks.

“It’s a family tradition of mine that the mother names the baby before the father meets him or her, so I have, but I’m not telling Steve,” Peggy says. “But since we’re pretty sure it’s a girl, I’d call him Michael if he were a boy.”

“I like Michael. I nearly named James that,” Johanna says.

“Ma, James’s middle name is Michael,” Jenny says.

“Is it?” Johanna asks. “I never remember middle names.”

“Ma,” Jenny sighs.

“This may seem like a strange question,” Peggy says, “but I’ve always been interested in names and what people name their children. What _are_ your siblings’ names?”

Jenny laughs, “The Irish pool of names is rather… limited, you understand. Traditional Catholic stuff. I have two sisters named Mary.”

“No you don’t!” Johanna says.

“Ma,” Jenny sighs again. “Sarah Claire, Mary Bridget, James Michael, John Patrick, Mary Rose, Matthew Thomas, and Janet Elizabeth. Of course we were called Sarah, Bridget, Jamie, Paddy, Rose, Mattie and Jenny.”

“How did I forget Bridget and Rose were both named Mary?” Johanna mutters to herself.

“Old age, Ma,” Jenny says.

“Shush, Janet Elizabeth,” Johanna says.

“You’re still not going to tell me what you’re naming her?” Steve asks.

“Buckella,” Peggy replies, throwing another saltine at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“I knew you would come around to it!” Bucky says, coming out of “his” bedroom.

“No,” Peggy says. “I’m not telling anyone what her name is until she’s here. Well, I told Becca but she guessed it.”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky complains.

“Life’s not fair, James,” Peggy says. “Saltine?”

Bucky snatches it out of her hand, and goes to the refrigerator.

“Strawberry jam,” he says by way of explanation.

 

* * *

 

_December 18, 1946_

_Automat, Brooklyn, NY_

Howard shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Peggy stares at him.

“The sooner you say it the sooner it’s done,” she says.

He glances over at Johanna, and the blood drains from his face.

“Ma’am,” he says shakily. “I’m Howard Stark.”

“I know who you are, young man,” she says, voice icy.

“I apologize for any difficult feelings I might have caused you,” he says.

“Of course you do,” Johanna says.

“I do!” Howard says. “I just did what I thought was best for everyone!”

“You thought pretending my grandson’s wife was dead was best for everyone?” Johanna says. “Who is that good for?”

“The… the…”

“Finish your thoughts before you say them!” Johanna snaps.

“Sorry!” Howard squeaks. He visibly composes himself then says. “I made a grave error of judgement that’s been brought to my attention many times over the last months and I do regret it greatly. I’m truly sorry that you had to go through that pain, I didn’t realize the magnitude of my actions.”

“Thank you,” Johanna says, then gets up. “I think we’re done here. Chit, are you coming with us?”

“I believe I am,” Peggy says.

Johanna, Peggy, and Jenny leave the automat with a ghost-white Howard left sitting in the booth, hand shaking.

“You scared a year off his life!” Peggy says.

“Oh, probably two,” Jenny says with glee. “I haven’t seen Ma that angry since Paddy broke Mrs. McNeill’s window!”

“Half of it was an act,” Johanna says. “He deserves to be taken down a peg or two. Rich men do what they want with no limits and the world’s going to go to shit.”

“I don’t think my own family reacted as strongly as I would have expected,” Peggy says. “So you gave him enough for all of them, too.”

“It was my pleasure,” Johanna says. She definitely doesn’t cackle.

“There’s something Steve and I would like you to see,” Peggy says. “It’s a bit of a walk…”

“It’s a very pleasant day, chit,” Johanna says.

It takes them the better part of an hour to reach their destination. Steve joins them halfway, and roars with laughter at the description of Howard’s expression.

“We need to find someone else to make him apologize to,” Steve says.

“He hasn’t apologized to Angie, has he?” Peggy asks.

“Ooooh,” Steve says. “I want to see that one!”

“So do I,” Peggy agrees.

When they arrive at the gate, Peggy sees Jenny clutch at her mother’s hand.

“This is the cemetery where we buried Ma,” Steve says softly. “She and my father are over here.

Peggy hangs back as they go over.

“It’s not much,” Steve says. “But it’s all I could afford at 18.”

“Steve,” Johanna says shakily. “It’s wonderful. You’re so much like your ma.”

Then everyone’s crying, and Peggy hands out the wads of tissues she’d brought for the occasion.

“Let’s go back to our apartment and get something to eat,” she says after a while. “Warm food’s good for the soul. Becca dropped off soup this morning.”

“Is it chicken?” Steve asks.

“Beef stew,” Peggy says. “And I hear it has parsnips in it.”


	11. December 25 (S, B, P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in Brooklyn.

_December 25, 1946_

_Brooklyn, NY_

* * *

 

Peggy wakes before the sun does, as is her wont, at least as is _Buckella’s_ wont. The Christmas tree that dominates the western wall of the apartment twinkles with white fairy lights, covered in a variety of silver and green and red ornaments, she lays down on the floor under its lowest boughs and puts a pillow under her head.

Steve finds her that way an hour later, softly talking to Buckella,

“What do you think next Christmas is going to be like?” he murmurs to her, sitting on the floor next to the tree.

“She’s going to be seven months old, but God only knows what her… unique genes are going to mean for that. It’ll definitely be different,” Peggy says after a pause.

“Better different?” Steve asks.

“I would hope so. This year hasn’t exactly been the calmest of my life, and I’d rather only have one big event next year,” Peggy says.

Steve murmurs his agreement, and gently tugs her out from under the tree to kiss her.

“You’re a very nice present to find under the tree,” he says.

“But I’m not even wrapped,” she says.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” he replies.

 

* * *

 

Knocking at the door wakes Bucky up, and he drags himself out of an empty bed, and goes out into the living room to find Steve and Peggy asleep on the floor next to the tree naked except for a bow tied around Steve’s…gift.

The knocking sounds again, and Peggy stirs.

“Who is it?” Bucky says loudly.

“Becca and Georgia. We’ve got heavy stuff so open the door!” Becca says.

“Just a moment,” Bucky says. Quieter, “Get up and put some pants on! Unless you want my sisters to see your bare asses.”

Peggy hauls herself to her feet, and drags Steve by the arm into their bedroom while Bucky answers the door. Two brunettes brush past him, and set on the kitchen. “Cinnamon rolls for the three of you, and some of the food for later,” Becca says. “Ma, Dad, Grandma, and I will be here at noon, Georgia, Helen, Richard, and Tommy are supposed to come at one, but you know how Tommy is. Any idea when Steve’s grandmother and aunt are coming?”

“Noon or half twelve,” Peggy says, returning in pajama pants that obviously aren’t hers, and a bathrobe.

“Good,” Becca says. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting them.”

“Oh, I’ve been looking forward to Johanna meeting Louisa,” Peggy says. “After what happened to Howard when he apologized to Johanna, it’s bound to be a good one.”

“What’s Christmas without a little drama?” Bucky mutters to himself.

“Are those cinnamon rolls?” Peggy asks.

“You feeling up to one?” Georgia replies.

“It’s not so much me as Buckella you have to ask,” Peggy says.

“You’re still calling her Buckella?” Georgia asks.

“I’m trying to convince her it’s a good name after the baby’s born,” Bucky says.

“James, I’ve told you you can name the next one,” Peggy says.

“Kip!” he says.

“No,” Peggy replies.

Steve comes out of the bedroom and briefly kisses Bucky good morning on the way to the refrigerator. It doesn’t escape Bucky’s notice that he still tastes like Peggy.

Georgia freezes in unwrapping the cinnamon rolls. “Is anyone going to say anything about that?” she asks.

The other four people in the room exchange glances. “You didn’t know?” Bucky finally says. “I really thought you knew.”

“Know _what_?” Georgia says. “You two are kissing now?”

“Significantly more than kissing,” Bucky says.

“I… Peggy?” Georgia says. “You’re okay with this.”

“Oh, it benefits me,” Peggy says, snatching a cinnamon roll from the plate.

“Wait, it benefits _you_?” Georgia asks.

“Oh for the love of God, will one of you put her out of her misery?” Becca groans.

Steve puts his glass of juice down and steps behind Peggy and Bucky, putting one hand on each of their shoulders

“ _Oh!_ ” Georgia shrieks before any of them can say anything. “It all makes _so much more sense_ now.”

“What makes more sense?” Steve asks.

“Well, you two have had this weird sexual tension thing going on since you were fifteen, and suddenly, poof, it’s gone,” Georgia says, finishing her unwrapping.

“We did?” Steve asks.

“Oh, you could’ve cut it with a knife,” Peggy says. “Remember when I said I’d been waiting for two years for the two of you to do that?”

“I didn’t realize everyone else noticed,” Bucky says.

Peggy pats him on the shoulder. “It certainly all worked out to your advantage,” she says.

Bucky smirks and kisses her.

 

* * *

 

Peggy’s arguing the benefits of boiling the Christmas turkey first with Louisa when Steve lets Johanna and Jenny in.

“Is she trying to boil that poor bird?” Jenny asks Steve _soto voce_.

“It’ll cook faster!” Peggy says.

Johanna shakes her head. “Chit, no one boils a whole turkey. It’s just wrong.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her for the last fifteen minutes,” Louisa says.

“Fine! You cook the turkey!” Peggy finally says and exits the kitchen.

“That girl can do a great many things, but cooking is not one of them,” Louisa observes.

“She can boil just about anything,” Steve says.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Louisa says.

“Boiling does have its merits,” Johanna says.

“Only in soup,” Louisa says.

“True,” Johanna says. “I’ve never subscribed to the notion that everything has to be boiled into submission.”

“Louisa Fiore,” Louisa says, offering a hand that’s not covered in turkey.

“Johanna McKenna,” Johanna says.

“Maybe we could just boil the legs?” Peggy says to someone in the living room.

“No!” Louisa and Johanna say in unison.

 

They eat their Christmas feast, with a very non-boiled turkey, and the topic turns to embarrassing Steve and Bucky. Johanna and Jenny are very interested in stories about Steve’s childhood, and when Helen says “Remember the green paint incident of ’25?”

“Oh no,” Steve says. “Please don’t tell that story.”

“Oh, Steve,” Winifred says. “That’s one of the best stories.”

Steve buries his face in his hands.

“Steve was a very artistic child, you understand,” Winifred says. “One year, Sarah saved for months to buy him a set of paints for his birthday. The first thing he painted was a lovely landscape of a park. Unfortunately, he fell asleep on it. Because his hair was a beautiful shade of white blonde as a young child, it managed to stain his hair bright green.”

“Oh no,” Jenny says.

“Oh, it gets better,” Helen says.

“He didn’t want Sarah to see this, because it seemed like wasting paint, so he enlisted Bucky’s help in finding him a hat. Unfortunately for them, Bucky lifted George’s best hat. When Sarah came home from a long shift at the hospital, she found both of them asleep on the couch, all of Steve’s hair stuffed up in the hat. It wasn’t unusual for either of them to sleep at our house or at Sarah’s, so she tucked them both into Steve’s bed and removed the hat… which was liberally covered in green paint.”

“It was an honest accident,” Bucky mutters.

“It’s still one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen,” Winifred says. “He had to confess it the next Sunday to Father Julius, who is an incredibly terrifying man.”

“When Sarah was about eight, she decided it was her purpose in life to rescue every single injured animal she could,” Johanna says. “It started out innocent enough, cats and rabbits and the like. But then there was the day she brought home a fawn. She insisted we patch the thing up, so I helped her splint the leg. I honestly didn’t expect it to live, but it did, and hung around the house for years. The spring before Sarah left, we saw the deer with her own little fawn.”

“Oh, you want to talk about stray animal problems?” Louisa says with a little too much glee.

“Oh no,” Bucky says. “Not this story.”

“Oh yes, this story,” Louisa says. “James wanted a cat, but when Rebecca was a baby, she was deathly allergic to them. But there was this kitten that kept coming around for food. So he showed up on _my_ doorstep one morning holding this pathetic little thing, mewling and bedraggled. Best cat I ever had. Unfortunately, he took this as a sign that he should bring _all_ the stray cats he found home to Grandma. I had to turn them away after the fifth one.”

“So _that’s_ what happened to all those cats,” Steve says.

“They were so sad looking!” Bucky says.

“How about the year Bucky thought he got a jackhammer for Christmas?” Becca asks, methodically destroying a roll.

Winifred cackles. “We wrapped this present in wrapping paper. A long stick with two bumps at the bottom. It was a pogo stick, of course, but eleven year old Bucky woke us all up that morning because _he got a jackhammer!_ ”

“It was an honest mistake!” Bucky says. “Ma, did I ever tell you the story of the time I walked in on Becca’s first kiss?”

“You wouldn’t,” Becca says.

“Oh, yes I would,” Bucky says.

“Why don’t we leave that story off the table?” Winifred says. “But you _can_ tell the story about when you and Becca decided to dress Steve up.”

“Nooooooooo,” Steve groans.

“Steve was just about the size of Georgia when he was eleven. Becca was four, and found this dress of Georgia’s. She bribed Steve into putting it on. I was out getting something at the store, and Steve was watching Becca. By the time I got back, she had him all nice and rouged up. It seemed only fitting to get Ma’s lipstick and finish the job,” Bucky says.

“Of course, I made you put on one of Helen’s dresses the next week,” Steve says. “You wouldn’t let me near you with the lipstick, though.”

“Yellow dress, pink daisies?” Helen asks. At Steve’s gleeful nod, “That’s why it was stretched out.”

“Are we done embarrassing people yet?” Steve asks.

“Oh, I suppose so,” Winifred says. “But you two really were quite a whirlwind. I have a feeling this baby’s going to be quite a handful.”

“Oh, of course she is,” Peggy says.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly midnight before everyone leaves. Steve and Bucky have gone to bed, and Peggy’s standing in the living room, looking out the window at the sleeping city. The only light is the fairy lights of the Christmas tree, softly glowing on the other side of the room.

“Next Christmas you’re going to be able to see those,” she murmurs to Buckella. “We’ll get a baby’s first Christmas ornament for you, and we’ll probably have to convince you not to eat the tree. Although, you might try to climb it too.”

She rests her hand on the small swell of her abdomen and Buckella kicks in response to her voice.

“And I promise I won’t let them name you Buckella,” she says.

As she draws the curtains against the cold and dark night, the streetlight catch the light of slowly falling flakes, drifting silently to the ground.


	12. January 2-January 12 (P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy, Steve, and Bucky buy an apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was nearly entirely too much fun.

_January 2, 1947_

_Elsewhere in Brooklyn, NY_

“No, absolutely not,” Peggy declares immediately upon entering the bathroom.

“I’m going to have to agree with that,” Bucky says, leaning over her shoulder.

“Oh, it can’t be that bad,” Steve says. Then he looks in, sees the entirety of the wall has been replaced with glass, and turns to their agent. “Really?”

“It’s a feature?” he says with a shrug. “Someone’s going to want that.” Under his breath: “Especially in this neighborhood.”

“No,” they all say.

It’s the third apartment they’ve looked at that day, and the agent seems to be getting frustrated with them.

“You have some very specific requirements,” he says. “If you’d expand your budget or neighborhood, I’d have more luck.”

“You must have _something_ else,” Steve says.

“Well there is one, but it’s a bit above your budget, and it’s… got some interesting neighbors and a rather colorful history,” the real estate agent says.

“We’ll look at anything at this point,” Steve says.

 

The apartment is huge, the entirety of a building’s third floor. The agent explains to them that the fourth floor is undeveloped. It’s technically free for any of the other apartments in the building to use as storage, but the only access is through the linen closet of the third floor apartment, so it’s basically only for the occupants of the third floor.

The kitchen is immediately off the front hall to the right, with a small room to the left that could serve as a study or mudroom. The apartment then opens into a wide living room that’s bare at the moment, but looks like it could fit ten times the amount of furniture they already have. There are three bedrooms, two across the living room from the front door, and one that shares a wall with the mudroom and a large, surprisingly opulent bathroom.

“Is that a five person bathtub?” Bucky asks from the bathroom.

“I believe it’s a four person bathtub,” the agent says. “Like I said before, this apartment has had a colorful history.”

“Was it a brothel?” Peggy asks from the smallest bedroom. Steve and Bucky immediately go to see what she’s talking about, and there, in the middle of the ceiling is a mirror.

“Of a sort,” the agent says. “It’s being sold by the owner of the bar next door because he just finished an apartment above his bar, and, if you can believe it, it’s even more racy than this.”

“How?” Bucky asks, opening the closet.

“You don’t want to know,” the agent says, suddenly getting a thousand-yard stare.

“The first floor is a bookstore, and how many people are on the second?” Peggy asks.

The agent shakes his head, and then says, “It’s divided into three apartments. I’m not sure of how many people there are.”

“Is this a secret compartment?” Bucky asks.

“It is,” the agent says. “This place was also a speakeasy.”

“Holy mother of God,” Steve says from the other room. “What _is_ that?”

As soon as Peggy walks into the room, she starts cackling. “Oh, no.” The entire wall is covered in various restraint systems, and they’ve obviously been well used.

“That’s what I think it is, isn’t it?” he says.

“Oh, it’s _exactly_ what you think it is,” she says.

“What… oh. Well, that’s going to have to go,” Bucky says. “I don’t care, it’s been used, and it’s _going._ ”

“Oh, I agree with you completely,” Peggy says.

“Can we go out of this room now?” Steve says. “I feel like it’s watching me.”

They go into the farthest right bedroom, the biggest, and it is fortunately free of any sexual devices. Aside from one hole in the wall. The attached bathroom contains only a sink and a toilet, but considering the size of the bath in the main bathroom, that shouldn’t be an issue.

“Why hasn’t this place sold yet?” Steve asks the agent when they’re back in the living room.

“The chains in the middle bedroom seem to be the biggest problem for people,” the agent says. “And the only people who are willing to look at something with this many bedrooms seem to be turned off by the clientele of the bar next door. I don’t know why they’re looking in _this_ neighborhood in the first place.”

“So, the bar is…” Peggy starts.

The agent gives her a hard look then says, “It’s a queer bar.”

“Ah,” Peggy says. “That makes sense, given the neighborhood.”

“It’s a good neighborhood,” the agent says. “My… partner and I live a few blocks down. He’s the baker at the café on the first floor.”

“Can we have a few minutes?” Peggy asks him.

“Of course. I’ll be right outside,” he says, then leaves.

“This is perfect,” she says.

“Except for the sex things in the middle bedroom,” Steve says.

“Those can be thrown out,” Peggy says. “But it’s exactly where we want to be, it’s _huge_ , there’s no giant window in the bathroom, and there’s probably not snakes in the walls!”

“We’re not going to find something like this again,” Bucky agrees.

“How much over the budget?” Steve asks.

“We’re going to have to dip into our savings a bit more than we originally thought, but not so much that we won’t be comfortable,” Peggy says.

“We’re going to do it?” Steve asks.

“We’re going to do it.”

They celebrate with a kiss.

 

* * *

 

_January 9, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

It takes a week for the papers to go through, and for the former owner to have the sex wall removed. There’s still two months left on the lease at their old apartment, so they take their time moving in. The first thing to come in is a kitchen table. It’s been in storage since Peggy moved all her things to the States a few months before the wedding, and before that it had been in storage at her brother’s house. It was a family heirloom, from her father’s side of the family, and the sturdiest piece of furniture she had ever seen.

It sat in the place of honor right in the middle of the kitchen, chairless.

The second thing is the largest mattress they could find, presently residing on the floor of the biggest bedroom, since the bed frame was going to have to be custom made not only to fit the mattress, but reinforced to contain the sexcapades of three enhanced people.

The walls had all been repainted, robin’s egg blue for the kitchen and mudroom, pale green for the smallest bedroom, light purple for the middle bedroom, which was to be Buckella’s nursery. The living room they had painted tan, and their bedroom a deep sapphire.

“I’m telling you, it should go here!” Bucky says, arms folded as he pushes the couch three feet to the left with his foot.

“Pick it up or you’ll scratch the floor,” Peggy says from the kitchen where she’s unpacking dishes.

“But here it’s between the windows!” Steve says, pulling the couch back toward Bucky.

There’s a knock at the door, and Peggy answers it to see Becca standing outside with a box in her arms.

“Ma sent me over with this,” she says. “It was always supposed to be for Bucky, but he never wanted it.”

She puts it on the kitchen table.

“Becca, where do you think this couch should go?” Bucky asks.

“Turn it to face the front door, and put two armchairs across from it,” Becca says, taking a cookie from a plate on the counter.

“That’s… not a bad idea,” Steve says. “We have those two chairs that are in Peggy’s storage.”

“Have you looked upstairs yet?” Becca asks. “I want to know what a brothel leaves behind.”

“No,” Peggy says. “They’re both too scared to, and I don’t want to go up there alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Becca says.

They open the hatch in the linen closet and Bucky boosts Becca into the space above.

“Anything interesting?” Peggy calls up after her. Her words are met with cackles from Becca.

“Oh god, you have to come see this,” Becca says.

“Give me a lift,” Peggy says. As soon as she has her feet firmly on the ground, Becca pulls her over to the box.

“Is… that a lifetime supply of condoms?” Peggy asks.

“Yep,” Becca says. “And in _there,_ so much slick you’re never going to need to buy any again.”

Peggy walks over to the pile of boxes against one of the walls and opens one. “Oh dear,” she says. “Here, help me with this.”

When she extends her feet back down, Steve catches her, then nearly drops her.

“What the hell is _that_?” he asks.

“That’s from our collection of lingerie,” Peggy says. The offending garments are a garish shade of pink, and she’s put them on over her clothes.

“How do you like these?” Becca asks.

“Oh god, that’s not something I ever needed to see,” Bucky says. “My baby sister in lingerie.”

Becca laughs again, but takes off the bright blue bra. “You could probably sell that for good money.”

“You can have it if you think you can sell it,” Peggy says. “The condoms too.”

“I’ll have to find space for it all,” Becca says.

“You can store it here,” Peggy says. “It’s not going to hurt us living in the attic.”

“It still might watch us,” Steve says.

“Yes, dear,’ Peggy says.

 

* * *

 

_January 12, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

The box that Becca had brought earlier turned out to be various kitchen utensils and baby items. There’s a particularly adorable picture, on the back is written “James, July 1918”. Peggy takes it upon herself to hang that one in the living room.

Steve and Bucky are out on a mission when the delivery truck arrives for the things in Buckella’s nursery. Peggy had decided to take the rest of her pregnancy off from active field missions, and to do most of the work from home if possible. It seemed the best way to keep her and Buckella safe until they were certain that all of Zola’s network had been rooted out.

The delivery men bring all of the things inside, and assemble the furniture that needs to be assembled.

“Do you need these things arranged, ma’am?” the man asks.

“No, thank you,” Peggy says. “I’ll wait until my husband gets home.”

“Very well, ma’am.” She tips them, and they leave.

She, of course, has no intention of waiting, and moves the furniture herself. She’s just setting up the mobile over the crib when Steve and Bucky come home, covered in dust, but otherwise unscathed.

“Take a shower before you come in here,” she says. “I just got finished dusting.”

They do, together, and it takes far longer than it should, but that was a given. She has enough time to go down to the café where their real estate agent’s partner works and get dinner.

When she returns, she finds them both in the nursery.

“What’s that on the wall?” Bucky asks, pointing to a large cloth-covered rectangle.

“That’s her name,” Peggy says. “I wanted to hang it now so it’s ready when she’s here.”

Steve runs his hand over the bars of the crib. “I just realized that this is for an _actual baby_ ,” he says. “That sounds insane, but I didn’t connect that,” he points to Peggy’s belly “with an actual human infant until now.”

“She’s been quite real for me for a while,” Peggy says. “The first time I felt her move was surreal, though.”

“You can feel her move?” Bucky asks.

“Of course,” Peggy says. “You’ve never felt her?”

“I didn’t know that could happen,” he says.

“Next time she moves, I’ll tell you,” Peggy says. “She feels like she’s sleeping now.”

“They sleep?”

“Yes, they do.”

They’re finished with dinner and sitting on the couch reading various things when Buckella wakes up. Peggy takes Bucky’s right hand and puts it over what is probably Buckella’s foot.

“Oh my,” he says. “That’s…”

“I know,” Peggy says. “I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: Valentine's Day.


	13. January 28-February 14 (P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An explosion and Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The muse fought me here, tbh. She wants me to write the next chapter ASAP, so there's that.

_January 28, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

Peggy pops orange slices in her mouth as she peruses the intel reports that Steve had brought home the night before. She’s already decided that she’s going to have to go in the next day to straighten out a few things, but today was for catching up with Angie. Between Christmas, the move, and the general insanity of her life, Peggy hadn’t had a chance to see her friend very often.

Angie worked the night shift at the Automat the night before, so she has the day off, until after dinner, and they’re going shopping. Mostly because Peggy doesn’t have many clothes of her own that fit anymore. She’s mostly been wearing pajama bottoms and either Steve or Bucky’s shirts around the house, and one particularly voluminous dress for going out. But since the coat stopped fastening, it was probably time for new clothes.

She assembles what clothes do fit, and pulls on shoes that don’t before hurrying out of the apartment and down onto the street to meet Angie.

“I feel like a planet,” she says.

“That dress does _not_ fit you,” Angie says.

“Tell me about it!” Peggy says.

They end up spending the entire morning trying on dresses, and go to lunch with six bagsful of clothes.

“So you can eat normal food again?” Angie asks.

“Oh, yes, thank God,” Peggy says. “She hated all food but saltines for nearly two months. Now she just wants all oranges all the time.”

“And she’s due in late April?” Angie asks.

“Yes, why?” Peggy asks.

“Oh, I’m considering wedding dates,” Angie says. “Would you be my matron of honor?”

Peggy’s face splits in a smile. “Of course! You want to wait until Buckella’s born?”

“Yes,” Angie says, then after a moment of hesitation, “Buckella?”

“I swear that’s not what we’re actually naming her,” Peggy says.

Angie’s response is cut off by an explosion from the building across the street. Everyone starts screaming, and running around. Peggy jumps to her feet, and is halfway out the door before Angie even notices.

The building’s on fire, and people are stumbling out covered in soot, coughing from the smoke. Fire engine sirens scream in the distance, and the street’s generally descended into panic when she notices Howard leave the building. She catches him.

“What the hell happened?” she shouts over the noise.

“Hydra,” Howard coughs. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so explosive. And…”

“They’re in there, aren’t they?” Peggy asks.

“Yes,” Howard says.

Peggy grits her teeth and swears vehemently.

Angie comes up and grabs her by the shoulder. “What the hell’s happening?”

“My job,” Peggy says.

There’s a loud crashing sound at that moment, and the fifth floor windows are suddenly gone, smoke pouring out. Peggy hears loud shouting coming from the building just before two bodies fly out of the fifth floor, landing hard on the pavement. A flash of blue and red is all Peggy needs to rush forward.

“Steve?” she says, shaking him.

“Ow,” he says. “We need to get out of here before the police come.”

“I know,” Peggy says, then drags him to his feet.

“I think something’s broken,” Bucky says, holding out his hand. One of his fingers is indeed sticking out at a strange angle.

“Come on,” Peggy says. They go to where Howard and Angie are still standing. “We need to go now.”

Fifteen minutes later, they’re sitting in the living room of their apartment, and gently peeling scorched tac gear off themselves.

“Would someone please explain what’s happening?” Angie says plaintively.

“Short story,” Peggy says, “we’re intelligence agents.”

“Long story you’re married to Captain America?” Angie says.

“Well, that too,” Peggy says.

There’s a knock at the door, and Peggy goes to answer it. Peering through the peephole, she sees three SHIELD agents.

“Are you all right, Director?” the first asks when she opens the door.

“I’m fine, but they could use some help,” Peggy says, gesturing to the men behind her. The second agent is a medic, and rushes forward.

The third agent is Daniel Sousa.

“We got a warning too late,” he says.

“Any serious casualties?” Peggy asks.

“It’s too early to say,” Daniel says.

They’re standing in the kitchen when Angie comes to get a glass of water.

“You’re a goddamn spy,” she says.

“Something like that,” he says noncommittally.

“I’m not going to bother either of you about that today,” Angie says. “But I do want an explanation.”

“Thank you,” Daniel says.

 

Peggy’s bags of clothes are retrieved by SHIELD agents a few days later, and the entire scene is cleaned, barely making an appearance in the papers.

 

* * *

 

_February 14, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY._

Valentine’s Day was supposed to be low key.

It was not.

 

The day started with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Somehow, Bucky and Steve get it into their heads to try to bring home the biggest gift, and by the end of the day, the kitchen table is groaning under the weight of the chocolate and flowers.

The contest lasts nearly the entire weekend, until Sunday night.

“You have to pick a winner,” Bucky says.

“I’m not picking favorites,” Peggy says.

“It’s not _favorites!_ ” Steve protests.

They’re having Bucky’s sisters over for dinner, and Peggy still hasn’t picked a favorite by the time they walk through the door.

Becca hands her an entire basket of oranges.

“That’s it,” Peggy says. “Buckella’s decided Becca’s the winner.”

Despite the protests of her husbands, Peggy does not change her opinion.

“Try harder next year, boys,” Becca says with a smirk.

 


	14. March 9-March 10 (P, S)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birth day and a birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse left during finals and Christmas, but she's finally back! 
> 
> One tiny bby coming right up.

_March 9, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

Steve and Bucky are out of town when the snow comes in. The explosion a month prior had led to many loose Hydra ends, and they were systematically chasing them down, and have been gone for three days, due back in two. The radio is calling it the worst storm New York has seen in a decade. The snow is up to Peggy’s knees as she slogs back to the apartment with Becca and Louisa in tow.

“I’m going to teach both of you to make my lasagna,” Louisa says. “All the ingredients are in the refrigerator or on the counter.”

They spend the next hour laughing as the layers of pasta and meat and cheese come together.

Somehow, sauce gets all over the kitchen. Literally on every surface, including the ceiling.

“How is that even possible?” Peggy wonders.

“And your _bambina_ hasn’t even arrived to cause the mess,” Louisa says. Becca climbs on a chair to clean the ceiling.

“You think she’s going to be able to do _that_?” Peggy asks.

“Have you met her parents?” Becca asks with a raised eyebrow. “Between the three of you, I’m going to be very surprised if she isn’t climbing the Christmas tree this year.”

“Oh god, I don’t even want to think about what this child is going to be capable of,” Peggy says. “Leaping tall buildings in a single bound is going to be the least of our issues if she’s got Steve’s temperament. Or mine for that matter.”

Louisa excuses herself to the bathroom while Peggy and Becca continue to debate Buckella’s likely proclivities. They’re discussing the likelihood of her climbing buildings by her second birthday when Lousia’s laughter erupts from the bathroom.

“You have _pornographic wallpaper_!” she cackles as she comes back to the kitchen.

“Well this place was a brothel in its last life,” Becca says. “You should see the stash of lingerie upstairs.”

“Why did you _keep_ it?” Louisa asks.

Peggy smirks, “Aunt Maude’s announced she’s coming to visit after Buckella’s born, and I dearly want to scandalize her.”

“Nasty old hag,” Becca mutters.

“Rebecca,” Louisa warns.

“Oh, no, she is,” Peggy says.

The lasagna is finished soon after, and they eat in companionable silence, freezing half the pan for later.

Becca suggests they turn in early, her on the couch, Louisa in “Bucky’s” room. Peggy bids them goodnight and goes to the master bedroom. She’s just pulling a pair of sleeping pants (Steve’s probably) out of the drawer when suddenly she gets a splitting pain that wraps all the way around her midsection. She cries out and falls to the floor, nearly blacking out as Louisa and Becca come running into the room.

They manage to get her onto the bed.

“What happened?” Becca asks.

“I don’t know,” Peggy says shakily. “It felt like I was being ripped in half.”

As she’s finishing her sentence, another pain strikes. This one is far less strong, but is alarmingly centered in the general area of her uterus.

“Oh no,” she says softly.

“How much longer do you have?” Louisa asks immediately.

“Seven or eight weeks,” Peggy says.

“This could just be false labor,” Louisa says.

“I’ve had a few false contractions,” Peggy says. “They didn’t feel like this.”

Becca and Louisa exchange a worried glance. Louisa goes off to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“If she’s born now, it could be very bad,” Becca says finally.

“I know that,” Peggy grinds out around another contraction. “I’m rather counting on her parentage to save her from that. Between the two of us, there’s been enough damage survived that I’m fairly certain Buckella’s going to be bombproof.”

“Six shots to the chest and a long dive into the Arctic do make for a good testimony to the strengths of the serum,” Becca says.

“Falling off a train,” Peggy says, pulling herself to her feet by the bedpost.

“What?” Becca asks.

“Falling off a train, not the Arctic ocean,” Peggy says.

“Who fell off a train?” Louisa asks.

“Bucky,” Becca says. “Who is also apparently Buckella’s father. How can you be certain?”

Peggy waits until another contraction runs its course, then says, “Stark decided to run DNA tests on her while I was still unconscious after I was shot.”

“So that’s how you’re so certain she’s a girl,” Becca says.

“Bucky’s the father?” Louisa repeats. “How… I… You… Steve?”

Becca leans over and whispers in her ear, and Louisa’s eyes widen. “Oh,” she says. “Well then.”

They go out to the living room where Becca and Louisa attempt to distract Peggy with stories of Steve and Bucky’s antics as children, but it only works for a little while before Peggy stands up to attempt to alleviate the pain, and a gush of fluid hits the floor.

“Becca, go get some towels, would you?” Louisa says calmly.

Peggy fights down the urge to panic and instead takes a steadying breath.

“She’s going to come fast,” Louisa says, “You’ve only been in labor for an hour. And as far along as you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s feet down instead of head down.”

Peggy laughs, “Just as dramatic as her damn parents.”

“Of course, did you expect anything else?” Louisa asks.

“Not really,” Peggy says. There’s another sharp pain, and she can feel something trickle down her leg. She looks down and there’s a trail of alarmingly red blood leading down to the floor.

“Hey,” Becca says. “Look at me. You’re both going to be fine. You both survived worse than this.”

Peggy takes another shuddering breath. “I feel like I need to push,” she says.

“Get on your hands and knees,” Louisa suggests. “Or squat. Whichever’s more comfortable.”

Peggy tries both and finds that hands and knees is easier.

“I can see… something,” Becca reports.

Louisa looks and says, “That’s her bum. Safer than feet first, anyway. On the next contraction, push.”

There’s a tense minute of silence, and then the feeling comes back again, and Peggy pushes.

“She’s halfway there,” Becca says. “One or two more!”

“I’m never going to let her forget this,” Peggy grits out. “Every damn birthday, Buckella, every damn birthday.”

“It’ll be on the cake,” Becca promises.

Thirty seconds later, Peggy gives one final push, and her baby gently falls into Becca’s hands. Becca clears the baby’s mouth of birth debris, wraps her in a towel, and hands her to her mother.

Peggy’s breaths are entirely too shaky, but she doesn’t notice, as the squirming bundle is pressed into her arms.

“Hello,” she says quietly. “You’re a little early.”

There’s something else happening and she hears Louisa say something about the afterbirth, but Peggy’s too wrapped up in the bright blue eyes of her daughter to care. She uses a corner of the towel to wipe off the baby’s head. A light dusting of brown hair covers her entirely too fragile skull, and she scrunches up her face, looking for food.

Peggy obliges her, suddenly finding that she wants to give this tiny being the entire world.

“We need to change her blanket,” Louisa says softly. Peggy hands the baby over just long enough for a tiny hat to be shoved on her head and her body wrapped in a blanket.

“Your papa’s going to be so mad when he finds out I’m not letting him name you Buckella,” Peggy murmurs to her daughter.

“What _are_ you naming her?” Louisa asks.

“Claire,” Peggy says. “Claire Rebecca Rogers.”

“Really?” Becca asks. “I knew you were calling her Claire, but…”

“It was never really a hard choice,” Peggy says.

“Thank you,” Becca says.

“Thank _you_ ,” Peggy says. “We might not be here if it wasn’t for you two.”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Louisa says. “I just found out I have another great-grandchild.”

“I’d offer to let you hold her, but she’s _so small_. I…” Peggy says.

“No, no, Peggy,” Becca says. “It’s okay. Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed. You don’t have to let her go until you’re ready to.”

Ten minutes later, Peggy’s in bed, Claire bundled up in her arms, and is finding it incredibly difficult to keep her eyes open. Becca climbs in next to her, and says, “I’ll stay right here. Until your husbands get home. And then you can lecture Claire on her bad timing.”

Peggy smiles, and thanks her, then immediately drifts off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_March 10, 1947_

_Outside A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

The snowdrifts are up to Steve’s chest as he slogs toward the apartment building, uniform torn from a few explosions but otherwise unharmed.

“Happy birthday to me,” Bucky mutters. “I don’t think I’ve seen this much snow since…”

“The Alps in the winter of ’44,” Steve finishes. “Hopefully Peggy didn’t have to go out in this. I can only imagine what it would be like to be pregnant in this.”

“I’m sure she and Buckella are nice and warm inside. Becca did say that she and Gramma were coming over,” Bucky says.

They make it to the front door, and fight their way inside, stomping the snow out of their boots before ascending to the third floor. The door isn’t locked, but that’s not unusual. Steve opens the door, and immediately kicks off his boots and drops the shield on the floor.

“It’s nice and warm in here,” Steve says. “We should never leave again.”

“I can agree to that,” Bucky says. His mouth is still open to say something else when his eyes fall on a gruesome sight in the middle of the living room floor.

The hardwood is splashed with dried blood, and a towel covered in red streaks lies abandoned on the floor.

“Oh god,” Steve says. “Peggy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I haven't been mean enough to Steve and Bucky. No one cleaned the floor.


	15. March 10 (B)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's thirtieth birthday.

_March 10, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

It’s Bucky Barnes’ thirtieth birthday, and his living room is covered in blood.

He and Steve stare at each other in horror.

“No,” Steve says firmly. “Just… no.”

There’s a noise from across the room, and their bedroom door opens. Becca comes out, clothes splashed with blood, covered up to her elbows in red stains.

“Oh good,” she says congenially, “you’re home.” She walks to the bathroom, a lump of cloth dangling from her hand. “I’m just going to have to throw these away. This much blood’s not coming out easily.”

Steve makes a strangled noise, and Becca sticks her head around the bathroom doorframe at it, shirt missing and arms covered in suds.

“Peroxide can get it out of the floorboards if you try, but it might just be worth it to sand it at this point. Oh, and you’re going to need new towels,” she says. Then, “Oh, shit. Peggy, c’mere!”

There’s the sound of bedsprings, then feet hitting the floor. “Is there any more cinnamon raisin bread?” Peggy asks, coming out of the bedroom. “I thought cravings were supposed to stop by now.”

“I believe so, yes,” Becca says.

Bucky’s first impression of Peggy is one of disheveled insanity. Her normally well-coifed hair is drawn up on the back of her head in a messy knot, she’s not wearing pants, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She doesn’t even seem to notice them as she turns toward the kitchen, then stops.

“That’s going to stain,” she says with a grimace.

“We were just discussing that,” Becca says.

There’s a sudden noise from the bedroom that has Peggy spinning on her heel. It takes Bucky a moment to register it as a baby crying.

Peggy comes back out, bouncing a bundle of blanket in her arms. “Shh,” she murmurs to it.

“Is that what I think it is?” Steve asks Bucky _sotto voce._

“Here,” Peggy says, and nearly shoves the baby into Steve’s arms. He fumbles for a moment, and Peggy corrects his arms until he’s holding the infant by himself.

His eyes get huge, then watery, and in the space of a few seconds, he’s crying. “She’s so _small_ ,” he says.

“I know,” Peggy says. Bucky leans into the two of them, peering at the baby’s face. It’s squished up, but her eyes are open.

“That’s a shade of blue I’ve never seen before,” Bucky says.

“All babies are born with blue eyes,” Becca says helpfully. “They change at around six months old, although given her genetics, God only knows what’s going to happen.”

“I think they’re going to be brown,” Peggy says. “Damn shame, there’s enough pretty blue eyes that she should end up with some, too.”

Bucky runs a finger over her face, and a hand shoots out of the blankets to grab his finger. The grip is surprisingly tight.

“Now, Claire,” Peggy says. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t cut off circulation to people’s fingers.”

The grip noticeably loosens, and the baby blinks at her mother.

“Claire?” Steve asks.

“Claire Rebecca Rogers,” Peggy says.

“Claire,” Bucky says. “I like it. Still a shame you wouldn’t name her Buckella.”

“Yes, dear,” Peggy says.

“Claire was my Ma’s middle name,” Steve says.

“I know,” Peggy says. “That’s one of the reasons I chose it.”

“What else was on the list?” Steve asks.

“Elena, Ella, Ruby, and briefly Chrysanthemum,” Peggy says. “Oh, and Clementine.”

“Can I…” Bucky starts.

“Oh, of course,” Steve says, and delicately passes Claire to Bucky.

“Chrysanthemum?” Becca asks, emerging from the bathroom in one of Peggy’s maternity dresses.

“For about a day,” Peggy says. “Call her Chryssie.”

“I’m going to go home now,” Becca says. “Take a shower, get some food. I’m going to have to call Ma, though. She was planning a surprise party for you, Bucky.”

“Oh god,” Bucky says. “I hate surprise parties.”

“I know,” Becca says. “But you can thank Claire for an excuse to get out.”

She gathers a few things, shoves them in her bag, and leaves.

Steve and Bucky take Claire to the bedroom while Peggy finally gets a chance to take a shower. “Eight weeks early,” Bucky finally says. “She’s got my timing, not yours or Peggy’s.”

Steve laughs, “Damn right.”

“So, Daddy, now what are you going to do?” Bucky asks, his voice high, pretending to be Claire. The phrase puts a strange twist in his chest that he can’t quite place.

“You’re going to have to ask your Ma, Clairie,” Steve says.

“Mum,” Peggy says from the doorway.

“What?” Steve asks.

“I’m her Mum,” Peggy says. “I’ll call it a sweater, not a jumper, but I’ll be damned if I’m not her Mum.”

“Oh, right,” Steve says. “You’ll have to ask your Mum, Clairie.”

“So you’re going with Daddy?” Peggy asks, pulling a bathrobe on.

“Unless she comes up with anything better,” Steve says with a shrug.

“What about you?” Peggy asks.

Bucky takes a moment to realize she’s talking to him. “What about me?” he says dumbly.

“What do you want her to call you? We’ll have to go with ‘Uncle Bucky’ or something like that in public, unfortunately,” Peggy says.

Steve grimaces, “That doesn’t sound right.”

“I know,” Peggy says. “But given what I’m pretty sure she’s going to look like, we might get questions.”

“How do you know what she’s going to look like?” Steve asks,

“Remember the hallucinations I told you about in San Francisco?” Peggy asks. At Steve’s nod, “I dreamed of two children, and I’m certain she was the elder. Chestnut hair, brown eyes, and,” she grabs Bucky’s face, “this chin.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “But… you don’t know…”

“Oh, I know,” Peggy says. “You can blame Howard for that one. The same genetic test that told me she was a girl and had the serum revealed her biological father.”

“What?” Bucky says.

“Half your genes,” Peggy says. “And she gets the good hair genes. Not that genetics really matter. You’re both her fathers. Now, what do you want her to call you?”

Bucky’s overwhelmed by emotions he didn’t know he was holding back. The first is relief, relief that his partners aren’t cutting him out of Claire’s life, relief that they think he’s _equal_ in this. Fear, the fear that a baby would push the two of them toward each other and away from him, evaporates. A groundswell of love, what he had _expected_ to feel upon meeting his child, rises, and he resists the urge to crush Claire to his chest.

“I’m… not sure,” he says.

“Da’s not going to work, too close to Daddy and Dad,” Steve says. “What did you call your father?”

“Father,” Peggy says. “And no, we’re not using that.”

“Claire, _I am your faaaaaaather_ ,” Bucky intones. “That sounds like something a supervillain would say.”

“Well you _are_ a supersoldier. Go evil and you could be a supervillain,” Peggy says.

“It’s not very profitable in this world,” Bucky says. “Especially not for me. Captain America sleeps in my bed, after all.”

“Oh, good point,” Peggy says with a laugh.

They fall into silence, and after a while Steve gets up and finally strips out of his uniform, and takes a quick shower. Bucky follows suit.

“She’s the best birthday present I’ve ever had,” Bucky reflects as they’re sitting at the kitchen table, eating reheated lasagna.

“How old are you, again?” Peggy asks.

“Thirty,” Bucky says.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says. “When did you get old?”

“Today!” Bucky says. “And you’re only sixteen months younger than me.”

“I’m _twenty eight_ ,” Steve says, puffing up his chest.

“Whippersnapper,” Bucky says dryly.

“I think that’s reserved for Claire,” Steve says.

Claire sticks her tongue out, but it’s difficult to tell if it’s intentional in a one-day old infant.

They turn in early, Peggy’s still tired from the birth, and Steve and Bucky haven’t slept in a bed in a few nights. The light’s just turned down, Claire in the bassinet on the floor beside the bed when inspiration strikes Bucky.

“Papa,” he says.

“What?” Peggy asks sleepily.

“Papa, I want her to call me Papa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's three, maybe four, chapters left in this. Angie's wedding, Aunt Maude seeing the porn bathroom, and Steve's twenty-ninth birthday.


	16. March 20 (P, S)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Maude gets a Nasty Surprise.

_March 20, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

As it turns out, even the children of supersoldiers don’t do much at ten days old. Except sleep. Claire is _very good_ at sleeping.

The excitement arrives in the form of Aunt Maude knocking on the door of their apartment at 8 am. Bucky rolls out of bed to peer through the peephole. Making as little noise as possible, he tiptoes back to the bedroom.

“It’s Maude,” he hisses.

“Fuck,” Peggy groans. “That damn woman has no sense of propriety.”

“What do we do?” Steve asks.

“Look as tired as possible,” Peggy says. She goes to the hamper and pulls out a spit-up and milk stained shirt from the day before. After she puts it on, she ruffles her hair, and turns to Steve. “How do I look?”

“Like you haven’t slept in days,” he says.

“Excellent,” Peggy says.

She goes to Claire’s nursery, scoops the sleeping baby into her arms, and stalks across the living room to the door where Maude is still hammering on it. Mid-rap, she pulls it open and steps back to avoid a strike to the face. Maude stumbles forward, overbalancing.

“ _What?_ ” Peggy barks.

“Now that’s no way to answer the door,” Maude says, brushing past her and into the apartment. “And it would’ve been polite of you to inform me of your change of address. I had to ask Harrison for it!”

Peggy silently curses her brother while she slams the door shut after Maude.

“Don’t slam doors, Margaret,” Maude says. “You’ll wake up the neighbors.”

“It would be such a shame to be woken up,” Peggy drawls.

“Why isn’t there a pot of coffee ready? This is America, don’t you do that kind of thing?” Maude asks, surveying the kitchen with her hands on her hips.

“We were asleep,” Peggy says, and just barely bites off _you old hag_.

“It’s eight in the morning,” Maude says. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“What do you want?” Peggy asks.

“Some hospitality!” Maude says. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes,” Peggy says, then goes to the bedroom and slams the door behind her. She puts the still-sleeping Claire down in the bassinette at the end of the bed, then flops face down in the pillow to stifle her giggles. “Your turn.”

Steve glares at her.

“For better or for worse,” Peggy quotes at him. “She’s the worse.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but hauls himself out of bed, picks Claire up, and goes out into the living room.

 

“Oh good,” Maude says. “The man of the house isn’t at work either. It’s a Thursday, how are you making money?”

“That’s none of your business,” Steve says.

“It most certainly is,” Maude says. “I need to know that you can take care of my niece. You haven’t even been married a year, how do I know I won’t have to support her on my estate?”

Steve barks a laugh. “Peggy makes more money than I do.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

“Yes,” Steve says. Claire starts to squirm in his arms, and wakes up. She immediately starts crying, which makes Maude jump.

“That’s a baby,” she says.

“Yes,” Steve says, drawing out the word as if Maude were an imbecile.

“Where did it come from?”

“Peggy…”

“You didn’t phone?!” Maude says.

Peggy comes out of the bedroom and takes Claire from Steve. “I’m sorry we didn’t put your feelings above our 8 week premature daughter’s fragile health.” Claire’s health is nothing of the sort, but Maude doesn’t need to know that.

“Give her here,” Maude says. “She needs her diaper changed with that cry.”

Steve grits his teeth.

“No, thank you” Peggy says. “We’re perfectly capable of caring for our own child. If you’d like to sit in the living room, we can talk after I take care of her.”

“What’s her name, anyway?” Maude says.

Peggy opens her mouth, but Steve beats her to it, “Buckella.”

That seems to stun Maude into silence. Peggy carries Claire off to soothe her, and Steve’s left alone with Maude. “Would you like something to eat?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” Maude says stiffly. Steve does not offer anything to drink.

A few moments later, Bucky comes out of “his” room, looking significantly more ruffled than he had before Maude knocked.

“Wha s’all the noise ‘bout?” he says, slurring his words. “Oh,” he wobbles, “’S the rude lady from yer weddin’.”

“This is Peggy’s Aunt Maude,” Steve says. “Maude, this is Bucky, our roommate.”

“Yes,” Maude says, disdain dripping from her voice. “Your sister cursed me out at the wedding.”

“And a damn good job she did of it!” Bucky mumbles, stumbling toward the bathroom.

“You named your daughter after _him_?” Maude says.

“Bucky is my best friend,” Steve says. “He’s like a brother to me.”

Maude harumphs.

Peggy returns with Claire and puts her in Steve’s arms. “I’m going to go get cleaned up,” she says.

“Bucky’s in the bathroom,” Steve says.

“Not anymore!” Bucky says, then seems to trip over a low table.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom before you take a shower?” Maude asks. “The trip’s been dirty, you understand.”

“Oh, of _course_ not, Aunt Maude,” Peggy says, obviously trying to conceal the delight in her voice.

Maude goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. They sit in the living room in silence until it happens. Maude shrieks and flies out of the bathroom, barely holding her skirt on.

“You have pornographic wallpaper!” she shrills.

“Is it?” Peggy asks blandly. “Bucky picked it out.”

“What are you going to tell Buckella when she gets old enough?” Maude asks.

“I thought it would be rather good educational material,” Steve says with a shrug.

Maude looks aghast. “I… I… I…”

“You’re gon’ swallow a fly,” Bucky says.

“I _never_ ,” Maude says, puffing herself up. “I’m staying at the Jamaica Hotel. When you’re ready to see me, you can come call, but not before you remove that wallpaper!” With this, she storms out.

They wait a full thirty seconds after the door slams behind her before falling over in laughter.

“Did you see the look on her face when you said we named her Buckella?” Peggy asks.

“You didn’t,” Bucky says. “That’s amazing.”

“That wallpaper is never coming down,” Peggy says. “Not if it keeps that woman out of here.”

“And I wasn’t lying. It _is_ educational!” Steve says.

 


	17. March 20-April 20 (P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reveals and weddings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments on the last chapter. 
> 
> I've been working on this series for over a year. In fact, my hope was to have it done by This Love's first anniversary. But life and the lack of a muse got in the way, and now I'm determined to have it done by _Agent Carter_ 's season premiere. In addition, at the end of this fic, I'm going to mark the series complete. That doesn't mean that I might not write a snippet in this 'verse now and then, but, to be perfectly honest, I'm getting just a little tired of this particular incarnation of these characters, and I really, really don't want to hate them. So the next chapter will be the last, and there will probably be an epilogue afterwards. 
> 
> The good news is that I have a plan for my next fic. It's... different than this one, a modern domestic Avengers AU, but I hope that if you like this fic, you'll give that one a try when it comes out. 
> 
> Until then, enjoy the rest of Safe and Sound. This will not end with a nasty death cliffhanger, I absolutely promise.

_March 20, 1947_

_SHIELD HQ, Camp Lehigh, NJ_

SHIELD’s Public Relations person came into Peggy’s office when she was there on a whim.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“You’re planning to… get rid of Zola this summer, yes?” the man asks nervously.

“Yes…” Peggy says cautiously.

“The… method of disposal you’ve chosen is going to be rather public,” he says. “My colleague and I have been discussing how the media is going to take this, and what we can do to minimize SHIELD’s exposure.”

“Go on,” Peggy says.

“We’ve concluded that the best way to go about this is to make Captain America public,” the man says. “I know what you’re going to say, but hold on. Most of Hydra has been uprooted, as far as you know, so that part of his job is over. More threats might come up, but even if Captain America has a name, he also already has a reputation that people will fear if they’re going to do bad things. At the same time, we would introduce you as Captain America’s wife, Margaret Rogers, and further conceal your identity here.”

Peggy mulls it over for a few minutes. “That’s not a bad plan,” she finally concedes. “If you can get Steve to agree with it, I’ll approve it.”

 

* * *

 

_April 2, 1947_

_SHIELD HQ, Camp Lehigh, NJ_

When Howard asks Peggy to come down to SHIELD medical, she’s not expecting to give someone dancing lessons. What she finds is Daniel Sousa with a (literally) shiny new foot, worrying about how he’s going to look during his first dance with Angie at their wedding in 10 days.

So Peggy indulges Howard, and spends most of her workday teaching Daniel, and several other agents, how to dance. She says it’ll be useful during undercover missions, but it’s mostly just nice to spend a day at work not trying to stop seven bombings and a car chase.

 

* * *

 

_April 9, 1947_

_A Former Brothel, Brooklyn, NY_

Peggy’s twenty-eighth birthday is significantly less dramatic than the birthdays of the month prior. It’s quiet, and she spends most of it sitting in a chair by the window with a book, a cup of tea, and a sleeping baby. In the month since Claire’s birth, she’d started going back to work three days a week, and the agreement she and Howard had reached was that by Claire’s two-month birthday, he was going to have some kind of childcare arranged for all SHIELD agents who needed it, and that Peggy was going to come back full time. Becca Barnes could only do so much babysitting, after all.

 

* * *

 

_April 12, 1947_

_Flushing, NY_

It’s a bright spring day in New York, and a good one to be spent outside at a wedding. There’s a large marquee set up across the meadow. Peggy’s tying a bow on Claire’s head before putting her in the frilly pram when Angie comes out of the curtained booth and spins around.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“It’s lovely,” Peggy says with a smile. “Daniel’s a lucky man.”

Angie blushes, and turns to fuss with her hair.

The wedding ceremony is beautiful, and someone (Howard, probably) arranged for doves to be released. No one fumbles their vows, intentionally or otherwise, and the only drama comes when Claire wakes up in the middle of the ceremony and insists on being held. Everyone just chuckles, because who can resist a cute baby?

Daniel’s secret practice sessions of dancing have paid off beautifully, and Howard resists the urge to plug his new line of StarkLimbs.

 

* * *

 

_April 20, 1947_

_Somewhere in NYC, NY_

The day’s rainy, fitting to Steve’s mood from what Peggy can tell. After a month of debate, he’d finally come around to the PR department’s solution, but that “didn’t mean he had to be happy about it, goddammit.” She’s never seen quite that look of disgust leveled at his Captain America uniform before, and he somehow got the cowl from the USO tour to use as Claire’s burpcloth.

He walks up the podium like it’s some kind of gallows.

“Thank you all for coming here today,” he says. “I have an announcement I’d like to make. The years since the war haven’t been calm ones in my life. I’ve nearly died more than once, I’ve gotten married, had a baby, had people threaten my family, and had my eyebrows burned off.”

The gathered crowd of reporters laughs at that.

“Recently, though, the world has calmed down some. My team and I have discussed this, and we feel that it’s time you got to know the man behind the uniform. But first, I’d like to introduce you to my wife. Margie?”

Peggy steps up onto the podium, purposefully wobbling in her heels as she does so.

“It’s been a rocky road as Cap’s wife,” she says in a fake American accent. “But through it all, he’s been so strong. Thank you for supporting him in everything he does, and I really hope y’all will continue to look at him just the same!”

“Thanks for that, Margie. I really hope they see me just the same, too,” Steve says. A reporter out in the crowd raises his hand.

“Yes, sir?” Steve asks.

“Is it true that you live in the queer part of Brooklyn?” he asks.

Steve visibly freezes, and Peggy quickly steps back to the microphone.

“Sir,” she says, “I don’t know who told you that, but we’re just honest true, Americans who want to do the right thing and have justice for all.”

The reporter says nothing to that, but sits back down.

“If there aren’t anymore questions…” Steve says. The room waits with bated breath. Steve reaches up and pulls his helmet off. “My name is Steven Rogers, and I am Captain America.”


	18. July 4-July 18 (P)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threads are all tied, and people get set on fire.

_July 4, 1947_

_Reykjavík, Iceland_

Independence Day has never been Steve’s favorite holiday, for obvious reasons. The fact that they’re spending it in Iceland is just icing on his birthday cake. Bucky’s never been particularly attached to the holiday, either, and Peggy is English.

The days are nearly 24 hours here this time of year, and they’re taking advantage of their supersoldier’s need for less sleep to sightsee. Probably not what Dr. Erskine intended, but the volcanoes are pretty.

“I’ll bet you that you can’t teach Steve to dance tonight,” Peggy says to Bucky.

“I’ll take that bet and bet you back,” Bucky says. “What are the stakes?”

“Claire’s next… problem,” Peggy says.

“Done,” Bucky says.

They’re at a bar, but it’s mostly deserted, so Peggy asks the band to play something slow.

“C’mere,” she says to Steve.

Half an hour later, she throws up her hands in defeat and drags him over to Bucky.

“Here, you try!”

Another half hour later, Bucky comes back. “Watch this,” he says. The band repeats the song they were just playing, and somehow, Bucky manages to get Steve doing something resembling dancing.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Peggy says. “How?”

“He told me to fight him,” Steve says.

Peggy laughs so hard she nearly snorts her drink into her nose.

 

* * *

 

_July 10, 1947_

_Reykjavík, Iceland_

The volcano is hot, drying the skin on Peggy’s face even from a hundred yards away. The squad of SHIELD agents opens the back of the truck, and two of the agents lead Zola out in chains. They walk him up to where Peggy is standing.

“I did not think you had this in you, _Fräulein_ ,” he says.

“You’re a fucking idiot then,” Peggy says placidly.

“Such language from a lady,” Zola says, tsking.

Steve and Bucky notice the interaction and come over, Claire in Steve’s arms.

“You brought your child to this?” Zola asks.

“Well you nearly killed her, too,” Peggy says.

“Can I _please_ punch him one more time?” Steve asks.

“Go for it,” Peggy says, taking Claire from him. The punch nearly decks Zola, but for some reason it makes Claire laugh.

“This is probably not what most people want their four month old babies to see,” Bucky says.

“Eh,” Peggy says. “It’s not like she’ll remember it, anyway.”

Zola is hauled to his feet, glasses cracked. He spits at Peggy’s feet, and spits out something lengthy in German.

The SHIELD agents haul him away.

“What was that?” Peggy asks. “Something about his quest?”

“Oh, the usual Hydra rhetoric,” Bucky says. “His mission won’t end with his death, there are many more out there, they will go on without him, general nonsense.”

“Hail fuckin’ Hydra,” Steve mutters.

“Exactly!” Bucky says. “Now, who gets to push him in?”

Steve and Peggy exchange a glance.

“You,” Peggy says. “You’ve got the biggest score to settle.”

“If I punch him really hard with this,” Bucky says, holding up his left hand, “do you suppose he’ll fly?”

“Only one way to find out!” Steve says.

The agents have removed most of the chains from Zola and placed him on a platform directly over the bubbling magma.

“Any final words?” Peggy asks.

“I will haunt you until your dying day,” Zola says.

“Thanks to you, that’s a long way off,” Bucky replies.

“I am not the last head! More shall rise to take my place! Hail Hydra!”

There’s a crunch, and then, it turns out, Zolas were meant to fly. His body lands on the magma, and Peggy will later think that she took too much pleasure in his screams as he catches on fire. Eventually they stop, and the only sign that there was ever a human there is the melting remains of his glasses.

“Rise from that, bastard,” Bucky says.

“A-fucking-men,” one of the SHIELD agents says. His eyes widen when he realizes he said it out loud.

“A-fucking-men,” Peggy agrees, with a clap to the man’s shoulder.

 

As it turns out, they don’t have to wait long for the last head of Hydra to rise. Later the same day, the only person they haven’t been able to find strolls into the lobby of the hotel. Pierre Montagne is tackled by seven SHIELD agents, and unceremoniously dragged to the same volcano and dumped in by Steve.

“I really fucking hate that guy,” he says.

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand then. “Fight me,” he says.

“Dancing on a dead man’s grave?” Peggy asks.

“Absolutely,” they both reply.

 

* * *

 

_July 17, 1947_

_Iceland_

It’s their first anniversary, and it seems only fitting to celebrate with fireworks. Peggy’s not entirely certain where Bucky got them from, but she’s sure the Commandoes have something to do with it.

“I still can’t believe all the shit that happened in the last year,” Steve says. “Claire, you dying, you undying, the former brothel. Going public.”

“And that’s only year one,” Peggy says, as Bucky sets off another firework. They can both hear the delighted cackles. “Imagine what’ll happen in five years. We’ll probably have another baby, one of us will probably have died and come back to life in that time.”

“We do seem to have made a habit of that, haven’t we?” Steve asks, amused.

“Just a little,” Peggy replies.

Bucky takes a break from his fireworks, and comes up to sit next to Steve, leaning into him.

“Which one of us is it going to be?” he asks.

“Oh, I think it’s your turn,” Peggy says.

“I’ll try not to lose any body parts this time!” Bucky says.

“We’re far too cheerful about this,” Steve says.

“We’re damn near invincible,” Peggy replies. “We have to be cheerful about it!”

“Truer words,” Bucky says. “Now who wants to light the next one?”

 

The next morning is the first day of year two.

Peggy wakes up early, something she’s done since Claire was born. She scoops the baby into her arms and goes outside, where the sun is already high in the sky. It’s a cloudless day, and if she were more superstitious, she might believe it was a good omen for the future. But she’s not, and so she just points her daughter to the east, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claire's not quite done with you all just yet.


	19. Epilogue, August 1953

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world's shortest epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will shortly (within the next week, probably) be followed by a new fic in this series that's not structured, but rather slices of life. Before, during, and mostly after these three fics. I still love this 'verse, but sometimes I think it's out to get me. Until then, I give you six year old Claire and her three year old brother.

_August 1953_

_Brooklyn_

The street is loud with children’s laughter and screams, the fire hydrant open to spray water into the scorching heat of the New York summer.

“Again!” the little boy shouts, his blond hair plastered to his head as he runs up to his sister.

Claire lifts him, and tosses him to their mother, through the spray. He laughs, and Peggy puts him down. Most normal three year olds probably wouldn’t be able to handle the strength of the spray, but Michael Steven Rogers is the son of goddamn Captain America, and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to be able to play in the water in the summer.

“Claire,” Peggy calls, “I’m going inside for a bit. Make sure Michael doesn’t hurt himself.”

“Of course, Mum,” Claire says.

As soon as she disappears into their building, Claire turns to her brother. “Wanna see if we can get you to fly?” she asks, a grin spreading across her face.

“I don’t know…” Michael says.

“Or maybe _I_ could fly,” Claire muses, staring at the water.

“Mummy’s not gonna like it,” Michael says.

“But it’ll be _fun_ ,” Claire says.

And it was. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ Yell at me on Tumbr!](http://fireflyslove.tumblr.com)


End file.
